


all is soft inside

by unsteadygalaxy (aheartmadefullmetal16)



Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: Apex Legends, Bisexual Disaster Mirage | Elliott Witt, Bloodhound identifies as a threat, Canon Non-Binary Character, Character Study, LGBTQ, Mentions of Blood, Other, Slow Burn, intense imagery during matches, mild violence, non-canon compliant, nonbinary bloodhound, written before pathfinder's quest came out
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:40:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 44,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26475064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aheartmadefullmetal16/pseuds/unsteadygalaxy
Summary: “What was that?”“Fyrirgefðu mér. I am sorry.”“Oh. Don’t worry about it,” Elliott replies. “I’ve had worse. Much worse. In fact, this is the most boring la- lacer... injury I’ve ever had! Super easy to deal with, and-”“Elliott, please,” Bloodhound says firmly. “You are allowed to feel the pain you bear.”---Mirage doesn't really think any Legend really, definitely cares about him for him. Not for his skills or his assets for a team- him specifically. But Bloodhound... Bloodhound is different.And that confuses the hell out of him.
Relationships: Bloodhound/Mirage | Elliott Witt, miragehound - Relationship
Comments: 93
Kudos: 261





	1. i bear a shadow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there friends! If you're new here, this won't matter quite so much, but I've decided to tweak the first few chapters of this fic a little bit. All the story will stay the same, there are just a few clarifications I want to make and transitions I want to smooth. Hope you enjoy this little update!
> 
> Update Feb. 2, 2021: Hi again! I just wanted to make a quick note in light of the release of Pathfinder's Quest. I started planning and writing this fanfiction before the lore book came out, so this fic will not align with either of their canon backstories. I absolutely loved the book and the canon backstory we have for all the Legends, especially Pathfinder and Bloodhound! I won't spoil anything, but you guys should absolutely get your hands on a copy as soon as you can. Enjoy!

The row of glasses set out on the counter are mocking him.

_Come on, Elliott,_ he thinks, _that’s dumb._ He picks one up and starts to polish it. _Cups are inanimate objects. They don’t have feelings._ But the water spots on each glass seem to stare at him like little eyes, scrutinizing him, and yeah, _mocking_ him. 

“You could leave me alone, you know,” he mutters, and he feels dumb for speaking to the open air. There’s no one in the bar- it had closed forty minutes ago, and only Elliott remains. But an empty bar plus an on-edge Elliott is a recipe for disaster, because his thoughts tended to wander.

And they are not wandering to the best of places tonight.

His thoughts are lingering on his mother, and he knows he isn’t doing himself any favors by dwelling on her. He knew her Alzheimer’s had been getting worse for months, but there was no way to prepare himself for what happened the week before. He called her every couple of days to check in on her- he’d been doing it for almost a year. When she had picked up the phone, she had seemed distracted and upset, but the worst moment of all came when she asked him who he was. 

_‘Oh, Mom, you’re- you’re such a jokester,’ he stammers, his heart dropping straight into his stomach. ‘Ha, yeah, that was great. Good one. Anyways, Mom-’_

_‘Mom?’ she asks, and her voice is confused on the other end of the line. ‘I’ve got kids? Well, damn! Would you look at that?’ She laughs, and Elliott has to force himself to laugh with her, because his heart is churning in his stomach acid and he’s one hundred percent positive that if he didn’t, he’d be crying._

He hasn’t told anyone, of course, because he doesn’t really know how to. How do you casually bring up the fact that your mother doesn’t remember you anymore? A cynical side of him whispers, _Who would care anyway?_ But he pushes that away, because he knows he’s cared about.

He hopes he’s cared about. 

It’s not a secret that he’s been having a hard time in the Games lately. He’s been distracted and fuzzy-headed and frustrated, and he doesn’t think he’s broken top 5 in at least a month. The pay hasn’t been as consistent either, and while Elliott is managing, the margin between his income and his bill for his mother’s memory care was alarmingly small. He feels like he’s in a constant state of panic. If he wasn’t winning, if he wasn’t making as much as he needed, how would he-

The glass in his hand cracks and promptly shatters, sending water stained shards onto the counter below. One shard catches a ridge of skin as it falls, and Elliott swears profusely. The blood blooms across his skin, and the pain accompanies it. A sharp hiss flies from between his teeth, and he grabs a towel. He presses it to the fresh wound, grimacing as he stains the fabric.

“That looks painful, Elliott.”

Mirage whirls around to see a certain masked hunter leaning against the door frame, arms crossed. Bloodhound meets his gaze, or so he assumes; he can’t see their eyes behind their goggles.

“Hound! I, uh, no, what are you talking about?” he blurts, scrambling to hide his hands. “I’m fine, totally fine! More than fine, in fact. I’m totally peachy! How about you?”

Bloodhound sighs. “Elliott, please do not lie. I saw you injure yourself.”

“Lie? Who, me?” Mirage scoffs, though his insides have become uncomfortable with shame. Bloodhound’s sudden presence made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, and he’s still waiting for his body to calm down.

Bloodhound sighs once more. They shake their head and pull a bandage from one of their many pockets and approach the bar swiftly.

“Really, Hound, I’m fine!” he insists, backing away from the bar. “Don’t worry about me, I can just go bother Ajay or something-”

“Elliott.” Bloodhound’s voice is commanding, yet gentle. “Be still.”

Elliott’s knees promptly turn to jelly.

Bloodhound takes a seat across the bar and removes their gloves. All thoughts of his mother forgotten for now, it strikes Elliott that he has never seen Bloodhound’s hands. Or any other part of them without their gear. Silvery scars stretch across their hands in spider web patterns, and their fingers are calloused and worn. 

“W-What happened to your hands?” Elliott stutters, before he can stop himself.

“That is a story for another time,” Bloodhound murmurs, their voice soft and quiet through the modulator. “Please give me your hand.”

Elliott does not press the matter. “Uh… hold on.” He pushes the spotted glasses aside and offers his bleeding hand. Bloodhound takes it gently. They cradle his hand in their fingers as though he is something valuable and precious, and Elliott’s cheeks redden. He finds himself feeling extremely glad he didn’t trim his beard this morning. 

Bloodhound guides him to the sink from across the bar, and turns the knob. They place his hand under the faucet and begin to clean Elliott’s wound. Their fingertips ghost across his skin and a silent hope forms in Elliott’s chest before he squashes it. _Whoooaaa there, buddy. You barely know Bloodhound. Calm down._

Pain lances through his palm, and he flinches. Bloodhound notices this, and they say something in their language that Mirage does not understand.

“What was that?”

“ _Fyrirgefðu mér_. I am sorry.”

“Oh. Don’t worry about it,” Elliott replies. “I’ve had worse. Much worse. In fact, this is the most boring la- lacer... injury I’ve ever had! Super easy to deal with, and-”

“Elliott, please,” Bloodhound says firmly. “You are allowed to feel the pain you bear.”

Mirage falls silent, shame and frustration rising in his chest. All of his emotions feel turbulent, roiling, volatile. The words bubble out and over like an exploding bottle of soda before he can stop himself. 

“No offense, Hound, but who are you to tell me anything? I don’t know a damn thing about you.” He jerks his hand away and wraps it back up in the towel, cringing slightly as his hand meets the old blood. “You’re this mysterious badass who always makes the top five in every damn match you play. How could you know what disappointment is like?” He turns his back to them and picks up the broken glass, then tosses it angrily into the trashcan to his left. “Who do you even have to lose? You don’t talk to any of us. You barely show up here. Why are you even here right now? We know next to nothing about you. Hell, I don’t even know your name! How am I supposed to trust you outside of the arena, much less inside?” HIs words are angry and bitter, and he spits them out like bullets firing from a gun.

“You think I do not know pain?” Bloodhound’s voice is quietly angry. Mirage stops in his tracks, and the shame washes through his stomach once more. “You think I have not lost anyone I love? You think that because I am successful, I do not know the meaning of suffering?”

“No, Hound, I-”

“That is not my name!” they exclaim, and for the first time, Mirage is afraid of the person standing in front of him. “My name is _Blo_ _ðh_ _undur_ , and you will address me as such.”

“Bloodhound, look, I-”

“I have known _verkur_ of the deepest kind,” they snarl, standing up from the bar suddenly. “I have seen horrors that will haunt me for the rest of my life, horrors that would keep even the robot _andskoti_ up at night. You think you are the only one to know suffering and anguish?” They scoff, and deftly slide their hands back into their gloves. “You think you are entitled to my story? To my identity? No, Elliott. That is a right few have ever received.”

“Bloodhound, I’m sorry. I didn’t think-”

“And therein lies the problem.” A pause. Then, “The presence of success does not mean there is an absence of pain. The path to victory is _fullur af sársauka_. Full of pain. Even outside of the arena.”

And with that, they leave as quietly as they came, leaving Elliott alone with his thoughts once more.


	2. all around is stone

The wind tears through Mirage’s hair as he hurtles toward Fragment East with Bloodhound and Pathfinder. Bloodhound rockets through the air to his left, the trinkets on their helmet twirling through the wind. Pathfinder flies to Bloodhound’s left, and his screen displays a bright yellow happy face. A twinge of guilt crosses Mirage’s stomach as he thinks about the night before. He’d run to the door a few moments after Bloodhound had left, but they had disappeared into the night. _So much for trying to apologize,_ he had thought. Getting to the Games this morning and seeing the team list had only made his stomach sour up more. 

Mirage manages to focus just in time to tune into his teammates coordinating a landing strategy. They would spread out- Mirage at one building, Pathfinder at the next closest, and Bloodhound a little further back in order to scan. Mirage internally dreads what he knows is about to come-- inevitably, he was going to screw something up. 

He lands hard on the balcony and bursts through the doors. The sound of Bloodhound’s scan echoes over the comms and they say, “Three hostiles.” Sure enough, the plodding of heavy footsteps approaches from the floor below. Mirage swears and frantically looks for a weapon. To his horror, there is only a Mozambique, with no hammerpoint to be seen. He tosses a decoy down the stairs and ducks out of the way, deftly sliding for the tiny shotgun. Just as he fumbles it into his hands, someone barrels up the stairs, right through his hologram.

Mirage turns, and to his horror, Caustic stands behind him at the top of the stairs. The large man’s looming presence always creeped him out. Mirage fires a full magazine of shots in a panic, hoping at least one of them will hit. _Damn this tiny clip,_ he thinks. The bigger man produces a Havoc out of nowhere and shoots Mirage squarely in the chest, knocking him to the ground almost immediately. A clone cowers on the floor as Mirage crawls away and drops down the zipline shaft, cursing Nox in his head.

“I’m coming to get you, friend!” Pathfinder announces happily over the comms. 

“Thanks, Path,” Mirage mutters, wincing through the pain radiating throughout his body. _Goddamn that Mozambique_. Any time he put his hands on it in the arena, something horrible happened. It didn’t matter how many times he landed headshots on the range dummies, the arena just cursed him. 

Caustic zips down to the ground floor just in time for Mirage’s invisibility to run out. “A pathetic effort,” he sneers. “You’ve failed today.”

Elliott doesn’t even have a response. He just closes his eyes.

The sound of gunfire peppers the air around him, but the pain Elliott is expecting does not come. Instead, he opens his eyes to see Caustic falling to the floor with an unceremonious _thump_. Bloodhound stands over the both of them as Mirage frantically crawls away from Caustic’s downed form. They do not hesitate or offer any taunts; they simply finish Caustic off with no further comments.

“ _Andskoti_ ,” Bloodhound mutters. They reload their R-301 and approach Mirage.

“H- I mean, Bloodhound, thank you,” Mirage manages. “What happened to Path?”

“Pathfinder became incapacitated shortly after responding to your call,” Bloodhound replies. Their tone is short and not at all amicable or soft like the night before, and a part of Elliott feels disappointed. “Lay low. I will assist you. Then we must assist Pathfinder.”

Elliott leans back and allows Bloodhound to revive him. The sting of the revival syringe surges through his veins, and he grits his teeth. Footsteps begin to patter against the stairs once more, and just as Mirage pops to his feet, Wattson enters the room and begins firing her Wingman at the both of them. Mirage activates his Ultimate and narrowly escapes, noticing as he leaves the building that Bloodhound has easily incapacitated her. 

“I am down! Help!” Pathfinder’s too-happy voice buzzes through the earpiece in his ear, and Mirage is annoyed for the millionth time today.

“I’m coming, Path!” he replies. He rounds the corner and dashes into the building. Pathfinder is on the floor above. On his way, he spots a Flatline and snatches it up immediately. He swears when he realizes there are only fifteen bullets in it; there are no heavy ammo boxes to be found. He reloads it and runs up the stairs. 

Mirage reaches the right floor and slides across the ground to Pathfinder. “Wait, friend!” the robot cries suddenly. Crypto appears out of nowhere and shoots the both of them with expert ease. Mirage realizes with a sickening jolt that he had definitely forgotten to heal up and charge his shields before recklessly dashing in to save his teammate. Pathfinder drops dead on the floor, and Mirage quickly follows. The last thing Elliott sees before it all goes dark is Bloodhound charging into the room, only to get shot in the back and killed by a third party.

“Attention. First blood.”

_Dammit._


	3. the universe is wild

Elliott wakes up in the hospital, and every part of him hurts. An IV delivers pain medicine to the veins in the crook of his elbow, but other than that, he is unscathed. The bullet wounds have thankfully healed, and he is no longer bleeding. _Thank God for modern technology,_ he thinks sarcastically. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up, and he realizes that he is not alone in the room.

Bloodhound is seated in the windowsill on the other side of the room, their head down and their arms folded. _Are they asleep?_ Elliott wonders. Their shoulders move slightly with every breath. _They look fine. Why are they still here?_ Elliott swings his legs off the bed and tries to stand up, but regrets it immediately. “Ohhhh shit, I’m going down!” he blurts, and promptly falls off the bed in a tangle of sheets and wires.

His head spins and aches, and spots of black bloom across his vision. “Dammit,” he swears, and he tries to stumble to his feet. Out of nowhere, two gloved hands grip his arms with firmness and exceeding care. They pick him up and push him gently back against the bed.

“Regain your balance, _félagi._ You stood up too quickly.”

“Yeah, you think?” Mirage snaps without thinking. He stumbles back onto the bed, pushes his head against his pillow and breathes unsteadily, trying to get some oxygen circulating through his body. The IV has managed to stay connected to his elbow, despite his clumsiness. He notices belatedly that Bloodhound is very close to him, hovering next to the bed, making sure he won’t fall again. 

“Damn, this stuff always sends me on the worst trip. Feels like college all over again.” Mirage laughs, awkwardly, hoping for some kind of response. “This stuff is nuts, right? We’re punched full of bullet holes every single day and these bastards have figured out how to make medicine that will patch those wounds up in no time. Completely nuts. Just wish it didn’t make me so damn high.”

The hunter by his side remains silent- his efforts to make them laugh are sadly fruitless. _I wonder what Bloodhound’s laugh is like_ , he thinks, and he doesn’t fully register the strangeness of his thought until a few moments later. _Whoa, what? Did I really just think that? What’s the deal, Elliott? You must be REALLY high._ He shakes his head, trying to stop thinking about it. “What are you still doing here, anyway?” he asks them, shifting his body around a little. “You look fine to me. Though, I guess I can’t really _see_ you. Well. You seem fine, anyway…”

“I am back to normal, yes,” they reply. “I wanted to make sure you were alright.” 

“Oh,” he says, a little surprised and confused as he settles back into the pillows. “Well. Um, thanks, H- I mean, Bloodhound. You didn’t have to do that. I’m fine.”  
  
They shrug slightly and move back across the room to sit on the window seat once more. “And so you are,” they murmur. The setting sun on the other side of the glass highlights the edges of their form, giving them an almost otherworldly glow. 

Sunset had always been Elliott’s favorite time of day. He and his mother used to watch it together almost every night growing up. He always felt calm by her side, knowing that while the day was disappearing, she was right there and always would be. But now… things were becoming different. She was like the sunset. Slowly slipping away.

“There is something troubling you,” they say. It’s neither an accusation nor an invitation for him to share- they simply state it as a fact as common as knowing the sky is blue.

An instinctive response bubbles up behind Elliott’s lips and very nearly exits his mouth, but in an instant, he remembers Bloodhound’s words from the night before. _‘You are allowed to feel the pain you bear.’_ But how is he supposed to even start talking about it? Where would he begin? How can he speak to them when he can’t see their face, can’t see how they’re feeling?

“Wait, aren’t you supposed to be all mad at me or whatever?” he asks, trying to change the subject. He very slowly sits himself up in bed, being sure to not move too fast. “I ruined your success streak and made a bunch of shitty decisions today. Plus, I said all that dumb shit last night at the bar. Aren’t you angry?”

The hunter seems to consider this for a moment. “No, Elliott. I am not angry,” they reply finally, their voice even and smooth. “I have never been one to hold a grudge. Nor am I upset about our match this morning. I am somewhat disappointed, but the outcome is simply what the Allfather willed for us today.” 

“The Allfather?” Mirage replies. “I’ve heard you talk about them before. Who are they to you?”

“I have not met the Allfather in person, if that’s what you are asking,” they reply. They unfold their arms and twine their fingers, clearly deep in thought. “Many would consider this faith to be foolish or childlike, but that is not how I perceive it. The Allfather guides me through all I choose to do. What the Allfather wills, I will accept, no matter what the outcome may be.”

“Come on, you’re a total badass!” Elliott exclaims, incredulous. “Give yourself a little more credit. You could kick everyone’s ass regardless.”

“Be that as it may, I will not deny the presence of the Allfather’s guiding hand.” The hunter’s voice is not frustrated or offended, but open and accepting. Their ability to hold to their beliefs makes Elliott jealous, and he wishes he could measure up to them.

“Huh,” Elliott replies. “Sounds fes- fash- fascin.. Cool, I guess. I’ve never been one for gods or faith or mystical beings, but hey, whatever floats your boat.” He rolls his neck, cracking a few kinks. “Why do you trust him, anyway? Sounds like you’ve been through some serious shit.”

“Once again, that is a story for another time,” Bloodhound says, their voice turning soft again, accompanied by the tiniest note of pain. There’s a small hopping sensation in the back of Elliott’s stomach, and this time he doesn’t try to push it away. “The Allfather may be from a very old faith with a very long history, but my _fjölskylda_ raised me on stories of his power and direction. I honor my fallen _ættbálkur_ by carrying the Allfather with me.”

“Fye-what? What was that other word?” Elliott questions. The language Bloodhound speaks isn’t one he’s heard from anyone except them, but it sounds lovely and melodic, especially in their voice. “What do those words mean?”

“ _Fjölskylda._ Family,” they reply patiently. “And _ættbálkur_ means… tribe, I suppose. Forgive me; the common tongue is not my first language, so I do not always remember the proper words.”

“S-Sure,” he stutters. “Look, Hou- sorry, Bloodhound, force of habit…” He falters, frustrated with himself. “I’m sorry about last night. It was really stupid of me to assume anything about you. All of us have shitty pasts, stuff we’re running from. And you’re no different. That wasn’t fair of me.”

Bloodhound chuckles. The sound is pleasant and lovely, and over much too soon. It stuns Elliott into silence. “Thank you, Elliott. You honor me with your kindness.” They turn away from him, staring out the window to the dying horizon. The sun reaches through the glass and glares off their goggles, reflecting spots onto the wall next to them. “I owe you an apology.”

“Wh- huh?” Elliott splutters, feeling a little uncomfortable. _Why are they apologizing to me? I’m the one who fucked up yesterday._

“I suggested that you are not intelligent yesterday evening,” they reply, not turning around to face him. “I am sorry. That was unkind.”

“Oh.” Elliott had forgotten about that. “You know what? Don’t even worry about it. People have been saying that about me my whole life, so I’m used to it.” He pauses, trying to find a laugh. It doesn’t come. 

“Nevertheless…” Bloodhound says. They get up from the windowsill and move towards the door, their movements lithe and smooth. “You have much more _mannvit_ than you give yourself credit for.”

Elliott doesn’t know what _mannvit_ means, but he hopes it’s something good. 

Bloodhound begins to open the door to leave, but Elliott stops them. “Wait, why did you come to check on me?” His emotions are a puddle of… well, mud. He’s not sure where one element ends and the other begins. “You never told me.”

The hunter stops, their hand on the knob. “That, Elliott,” they murmur, almost too quiet to hear, “is-”

“-a story for another time,” Elliott finishes for them. He rolls his eyes, but he’s not annoyed, not really. Mostly, he’s just confused, but satisfied. “Right. Well, I’m gonna hold you to that.”

“I would not expect anything different.” They turn and give him one last look, and exit the room, letting the door come to a soft close.

Elliott couldn’t see Bloodhound’s face, but he hopes they were smiling. 


	4. running with the wolves

Mirage picks up an R-301 and lets out a huge sigh of relief. He quickly removes every attachment from his Alternator and swaps it over to the new gun, and dumps the old one on the floor. _Good riddance,_ he thinks. He hates the Alternator. It feels too choppy and unpredictable in his hands. The smoothness of the R-301 made it a favorite weapon of his. He holsters it, picks up a stray box of heavy ammo, and loads that into his Wingman. “Hey kids,” he says to the comms piece in his ear. “If you see a good old Skullpiercer anywhere, let me know.”

He was doing surprisingly well today. _I guess ‘well’ is a relative term,_ he thinks. _At least we weren’t first blood again._ The teams list this morning made him dread his very existence. Today Mirage is teamed up with Caustic and Crypto. Crypto he could handle, but Caustic? God, he hated that guy. Nox was so snide and rude to everyone around him. His attitude was as toxic as his experiments, and Mirage couldn’t stand being around him. 

“Skullpiercer here,” Caustic announces. 

_Ugh. Gross,_ Mirage thinks. “Hey, thanks buddy! I’ll grab that.” He trots down the stairs and makes his way over to the next building to pick up the attachment. Caustic is behind the counter, setting a trap in the corner by the door. Crypto is crouched over in the storage room, observing his drone through a holographic screen.

“Two squads in my drone range,” Crypto calls. “We should make our way over the hill to Fragment East. We need to go now so we don’t get pinched.”

“No,” Caustic disputes. “We can lie in wait for them here. I believe all our Ultimates are charged, yes?”

“Yes, but we need to beat them up the hill,” Crypto replies. “If we do not take the position now, we will be overrun.

“Are you afraid, Crypto?” Caustic sneers. “It seems that you feel threatened, do you not?”

“Maybe it is you who should be afraid, Nox,” Crypto says, a hint of venom in his voice.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, kids!” Mirage says nervously. “Let’s break up the catfight! Listen, Caustic, Crypto is right. We’ve got to take the choke point before anyone else does.”

“Suit yourself,” Caustic responds. He staunchly ignores the two of them and moves to the other door to set the next trap.

Mirage sighs. _Dammit,_ he thinks. _These two are insufferable._ “Come on, Crypto, let’s leave Mr. Gas Man alone to do his dirty work.” He attaches the Skullpiercer to his Wingman, jogs out of the room, and begins to head up the hill. 

“Fine, old man.” Crypto follows suit, skirting around the buildings and sticking to the mountainside. 

“Old man?” Mirage shouts, annoyed. They ascend the hill swiftly. “Come on kid, you’ve gotta let that slide! You’ve been calling me that ever since-”

_kzzzhhhCRACK!_

The sound of a fully charged Sentinel rips through the air, and the accompanying bullet hits Crypto squarely in the chest. He yells something in Korean that Mirage doesn’t understand, and scrambles up the ledges underneath the giant overhang. 

_kzzzhhhCRACK!_ Another charged bullet flies directly in front of Mirage’s nose, missing him narrowly. “DAMMIT!” he yells. He releases all of his clones, hoping to distract the other team for just long enough to join Crypto on the ledge. The echoes of _you got bamboozled!_ smack against the canyon walls, multiplying until it puts a ring in Elliott’s ears. He rushes up the ledges and crouches, trying to take aim with his Wingman.

Bloodhound, Wattson, and Octane speed up the hill with inhuman swiftness, pursuing Mirage and Crypto relentlessly. Mirage takes aim at Wattson with his Wingman and fires. His hands are shaking from the escape, and he misses the first three. The next two hit her in the shoulder and stomach respectively, and her shields sputter, but hold. Crypto fires his G7 at Octane, but Mirage is too distracted to see whether or not he lands his shots.

“Caustic!” he calls, swapping to his R-301. “These guys are feeling ag- agn- aggre- FEISTY today, so I’m gonna try and draw them down to the city. You come up behind and cut off their retreat!”

“Understood,” the trapper responds. 

_Uh… did he just agree with me?_ “Wow, okay, great! I’ll see-”

“Move, you imbecile!”

“Uh- right!” Mirage quickly fires a clip of his AR at Wattson, then dashes down the hill towards Fragment. He tosses a decoy to the side, hoping to throw off his pursuers once more. Crypto tosses his drone into the air, and positions it in a perfect spot to detect any enemies coming up the hill. He follows Mirage, taking shots at Octane with his Prowler as he goes. He backs up and hides behind a small outcropping of rock just as Mirage makes it to the halfway point.

An otherworldly roar splits the air.

Mirage slides behind a large shipping crate, and tries to see what the hell is going on. Crypto’s drone indicates two hostiles, further up the hill, but the third is nowhere to be seen. _Where…?_ Caustic’s gas canister arcs far above all their heads, and explodes upon impact, cloaking them all in a green mist. Just as Crypto begins to activate his EMP, his drone is shot down, and the indicators disappear. The steady beating of bullets rings in Mirage’s ears, and he calls out to his team. “What’s going on? I thought you guys were gonna choke them!”

“Shut up!” Crypto yells in frustration. “You abandoned us!”

A cold feeling grips Elliott’s chest, and he stops in his tracks, breathing hard. “Look, it’s not my fault you guys are completely incompetent-”

A pair of glowing, red eyes emerges from the toxic mist, and the words in Elliott’s mouth fizzle out and die. Bloodhound swipes the gas away, and sprints down the hill, low to the ground, surrounded by an electric red energy that makes Elliott’s eyes water. Even from where Elliott is, he can hear how hard Bloodhound is breathing. They flip a small, lethal looking axe in their hand as they run, and Elliott is scared for his life. He’s seen Bloodhound while they were Ulting before, but never like this. He’s rarely ever been on the receiving end.

Bloodhound is a beast of deadly precision, flying down the hill as smoothly and imperceptibly as their raven companion would. It seems like lightning strikes with every step, and Elliott just gazes at them, absolutely dumbfounded. They’re a magnificent creature, exuding pure power and dignity and strength. Too late, he realizes that he should, in fact, be getting ready to shoot at them. That familiar feeling in his stomach clenches both pleasantly and unpleasantly, and he takes aim with his Wingman. 

The first shot misses completely, but part of Elliott doesn’t even care. Part of him just wants to watch Bloodhound and nothing else. _You dumbass! Why are you so useless? Stop freaking out like a six year old girl and SHOOT!_ He shakes his head, and takes aim once more. The next three shots land perfectly on Bloodhound’s head and chest, putting a sizable amount of damage into their red shield. Bloodhound swiftly pulls out an R-99 and fires at Elliott’s head and chest, ripping through his purple shield with ease. _Dammit!_ Elliott dives back behind the storage crate and throws out a decoy, taking the brief moment he has to reload both of his weapons. His breathing is ragged, heavy, and it almost keeps him from hearing what’s going on. 

Elliott darts out from his hiding space, taking aim at Bloodhound’s head with his Carbine. Except… Bloodhound isn’t there. He turns around, and immediately gets shot in the chest with their R-99. Elliott falls to the ground, bleeding and gasping, and his head hits the dirt, hard. His vision spins, and bile rises to his throat. Bloodhound stands above him, still crackling with electric energy, breathing hard. They reach in their pockets for something shiny and silver. The ringing in Elliott’s ears reaches a deadly pitch, and he hears something he vaguely recognizes. 

“ _Fyrirgefðu mér._ ”

Bloodhound’s axe embeds itself into Elliott’s helmet, and everything goes dark. 


	5. will I float or will I drown?

_This city is much too loud,_ they think.

A lone figure perches atop a very high apartment building in the middle of bustling towers of grey. Talosian cities are loud and busy and choked with smoke, and Bloodhound misses the serenity of the forest. They miss the lush green of the trees, the gentle hum of the insects and creeping things in the summer, the sound of birds in the spring. They miss the rushing of the water in the creeks near their village, the far-off howling of the wolves at night. But most of all, they miss the comforting memories of home, and of their mother. Their father. Their uncle, Artur. 

If they squint, they can almost pretend the bright lights down below are fireflies, flitting around to their own whims, bound by nothing. Free. Sometimes, they miss the simpler times, when life did not consist of killing, sleeping, and killing again. But they know that they have consigned themself to this life for a valuable reason, and they will not soon abandon it.

They try with all their might to remember life before Talos. Life before the IMC. Life before they watched their parents perish before their eyes. But they were much too young- they had only been a toddler when their parents took them to Talos for their research. They had only been four years old when they watched their father get swallowed by a raging rush of ice and wind and death.

_The ice slows just the slightest bit before it reaches their house, but they are still screaming. “Father! Father! No! Allfather, protect him!” A great shattering, splintering roar engulfs the air as the ice impacts their home. The windows crack and heave, but hold their shape, by some holy miracle. They are swiftly picked up and carried away from the windows right as the cold begins to rush in. Artur holds them in his arms, but he too is sobbing, praying to the Allfather, containing the child’s beating limbs, but only just._

A chill passes down Bloodhound’s spine, a sinister echo of the anguish they had felt. It had been many, many years, but the images of the ice burying their father’s body would haunt them forever. The way they’d cried when Artur told them their mother was dead too… Bloodhound could sometimes still feel the dizzying shock and grief in all its initial potency. When they had heard the new arena would be on Talos, their heart dropped straight into their stomach. It felt like a horrific violation, a slap in the face that such a broken and painful part of their past would be on display for all to see, even if the spectators did not know the significance. Setting foot in Epicenter for the first time, knowing that this was where their parents had come to rest… That match had not ended in a victory.

The air around them suddenly feels stiff and unyielding. It doesn’t seem to pass through their mask and into their lungs the way they would like for it to. Bloodhound removes their gloves, followed by their helmet, letting their long red hair fall freely. They sigh and remove the elastic holding the top half of their hair. Their fingers run across their sore scalp, massaging the roots till they no longer ache. The round goggles follow the helmet, and after a moment of hesitation, so does the mask. _I am alone here,_ they rationalize. _No one will disturb me._ They lie down on the ground and gaze at the stairs as their mind begins to wander.

Ever since Artur died, Bloodhound had never been comfortable with letting anyone see their face. The injuries may have healed, but silver scars still stretched across their skin. They had never been one to obsess over looks or vanity, but these scars held a deeper meaning, a deeper story that they did not want to be bothered about. Breathing had been extremely difficult following the accident, but as the years passed, they could go longer and longer without the respirator. Their goggles had assisted them since they were very young; their eyes were unusually sensitive, and the lenses were tinted to dull the incoming light. But under the stars, they do not have to worry, because those far off supernovas could not hurt them.

They close their eyes, feeling the mild night air on their skin. Today’s match had been a particularly invigorating one, one that they enjoyed immensely. Their squad had taken first place after a tense shootout with the last remaining team. All of their opponents had been strong and worthy of praise. A sensation they can’t quite place starts in their stomach and expands to their chest when they think of Elliott. It’s like crystalized electricity, crackling and sparkling as it travels up their spine. Elliott was… refreshingly different. They had never met such a loudmouth, but he was proficient in his skill, and they had to admire him for that. _His performance has suffered greatly as of late,_ they think. When Elliott was focused, he could be an incredibly valuable asset to their team. But now, for reasons that were his own, he was distracted and forlorn. He was not as attentive as Bloodhound knew he could be. Taking him down in a match had never been a problem. They always did what they had to in order to win and honor their fight. They never hesitated when killing an opponent. 

Until today. 

_Caustic’s gas chokes the air around them, and for a moment, they cannot breathe. But the Beast of the Hunt propels them forward. They swipe their hands through the mist and break free of the cloud’s envelope, regaining their stride. They breathe deep, reveling in the Allfather’s gift of strength, and sprint down the hill. Scarlet footprints stain the ground like blood, leading to another kill, another victory. Who is at the end of them? They do not know, but they do not care. They flip Artur’s axe in their hands, passing it back and forth, and they itch to throw it. Their prey becomes visible, highlighted red, and Bloodhound’s heart stops._

_It is Elliott._

_Elliott hesitates for a moment, then raises his gun. Bloodhound pulls out their R-99 just as three Wingman shots connect against their head and chest. Their shields are down by a considerable amount, but they persist, and unload an entire clip into the top half of Elliott’s body. His shields are ripped away, and he dives behind a storage crate just as Bloodhound reaches him. They back off briefly, waiting and watching to see what will happen. Elliott runs off to the side, but no- it’s not him, it’s surely a decoy. The real Elliott jumps out from behind the crate, his back facing them. A brief flash of something- pity, maybe?- runs through their brain, but the hesitation is gone, and they fire the next clip of ammo into his chest as he turns around._

_He falls to the ground, his head hitting the dirt with a painful_ thunk. _A strange feeling takes hold in Bloodhound’s chest- a mixture of triumph, adrenaline, and sorrow. As their Ultimate fades away, so does the rush of aggression, and a feeling of remorse replaces it. Elliott lays on the ground before them, bleeding and battered, quickly fading away. Their heart constricts painfully in their chest at the sight of him, and they flip Artur’s axe once more._

" _Fyrirgefðu mér,” they murmur. They do not want to do this, but they must._

_A flash of silver, a spattering of blood, and Elliott is gone._

Bloodhound finds themself clutching their chest, right over their heart. The discomfort of all of the conflicting things they had felt comes rushing back, splashing around inside them like children on a rainy day. _Why do you care so deeply for him?_ they wonder to themself. _Why now? What has changed?_ They had lingered in the hospital until they knew Elliott was going to be alright. They rarely did that with anyone that was not in their squad. _So why Elliott?_

The door to the roof flies open, flooding the area with a vast golden light. Bloodhound sits up in a flash, hastily grabbing their goggles as their eyes burn. A pair of running footsteps abruptly come to a screeching halt, and their owner says, “Oh sorry, I was just-”

Bloodhound fumbles with their goggles, and notices in a panic that their mask is still off. They look up to berate the person who had intruded upon their privacy, but when their eyes meet, Bloodhound’s heart tightens. 

It is Elliott, backlit by the glow of the bulbs from the staircase. He stands there for a brief moment, staring down at Bloodhound, his mouth hanging open. His eyes flicker to the goggles in their hand, then to the mask and helmet on the ground. “Bloodhound! Is that y-” He covers his eyes and begins to nervously pace. “Shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to in- inch- barge in on you like this! Oh, god, I’m dumb, I’m so sorry, I feel like I just walked in on you naked? Wait, no, that’s not the same thing, I swear I don’t imagine you naked or anything- oh my _god_ Elliott _SHUT UP-”_

“Elliott!” Bloodhound snaps. It comes out more like a bark than anything else, and it silences him immediately. “Please, Elliott, _vertu rólegur._ It is alright. Please give me a moment.” Shame and fear flood their body with no warning, and they shiver uncomfortably as they put the goggles and respirator back on.

“Bloodhound, I’m really sorry, look, I’ll just leave and pretend this never happened-”

“Elliott, it is fine,” Bloodhound insists, even though they feel horribly, deeply exposed. Their voice becomes modulated and slightly muffled once more as they flip the switch on the mask.

“Are you sure?” Elliott asks, still sweating visibly. His energy is nervous, frustrated, and strangely emotional, as though he had been in an argument or had a nightmare. “‘Cause I can just-”

“Yes,” they reply. “I am sure.” Despite his intrusion, Bloodhound does not want him to leave. _But why?_ _He is far too much of a liability right now. Why not ask him to leave? He certainly would like to._ They stand swiftly, and gather their hair in their hands, not facing him. They begin to tie it back, but in their stress, they pull at the elastic too roughly and it breaks. They swear under their breath as their body shakes, and drop their hands to their sides, huffing in frustration. _It is no use._ “You may uncover your eyes.”

Elliott slowly removes his hands from his face. He looks at Bloodhound with extreme hesitation, and seems relieved to find that they are masked once more. He shifts his feet uncomfortably and coughs, then clears his throat. “So, uh… that was awkward.” He pauses, waiting for a response. When none comes, he continues. “Why are you up here all alone, anyway? You don’t like to hit the town after matches?”

Bloodhound ignores his nervous queries. They take a few deep breaths, trying to settle their shaking stomach. “First, Elliott, I must ask you to never speak of this moment. I have spent much of my time hiding my identity from those who could cause me harm, and from all of our fellow Legends. I do not wish for anyone to know who I am, or what harm has befallen me.” They meet his eyes and stare him down intensely.

Elliott visibly shivers and takes a step back, raising his hands in a placating gesture. Even though he cannot see their eyes, Bloodhound knows their seriousness has done the trick. “Hey, look, as much as I want to go blabbing about that gorgeous red hair of yours, I’m not going to tell, I promise. And it’s definitely not because I’m terrified right now, nope, not at all.” He lets out a half-hearted chuckle, but it dies as he quickly checks Bloodhound’s body language to try and get a read on them. 

“Elliott, I need to know I can trust you,” Bloodhound says sternly, turning to face him. He still looks completely stunned and nervous, and Bloodhound’s heart is pounding, the blood thumping in their veins louder than the footsteps of the Leviathan. But Elliott takes a deep breath, and the nerves seem to drain away from him, leaving the strange sense of frustration from before.

“You can trust me, Bloodhound,” he says. “I won’t say a word.”

Bloodhound stares at him, more nervous than they’ve ever been in their entire life. _This all depends on him. Will he honor my request?_ The uncertainty bubbles up inside them like the lava on World’s Edge, and their knees tremble faintly. _I must take a chance on him._ Finally, they exhale, letting out a sigh. “I am counting on you,” they murmur. 

He still hasn’t taken his eyes off of them, and Bloodhound feels too seen, too exposed. They turn away, and move across the roof to the balcony, trying to put some distance between them. 

“Um… so... you never answered my question. What are you doing up here?” Elliott asks tentatively, and Bloodhound hears the door to the roof close. His footsteps approach them, and Elliott stands at the balcony, a comfortable distance to their left. 

Bloodhound searches for the words, weighs them in their mind, deciding how much to say. _Keep things vague,_ they think. _He does not need to know about your past here. Not yet._

“The city below is too loud and brash for my liking,” they say. “I spend time up here to get away from the noise. I did not grow up in the city, as many of you did, and living here is… an adjustment.”

“Where did you grow up?” It is an innocent enough question, but it gives Bloodhound pause. 

“The exact location is something I wish to keep to myself,” they say finally, “but suffice it to say, it was nowhere near cities like these.” In an attempt to steady their hands, they gather their long hair together and begin to braid it, starting at the top of their head. 

“Huh.” Elliott leans on the balcony railing, putting his weight on his elbows. He’s gazing out over the streets, but his eyes are far away, and Bloodhound is surprised that he is not babbling on like he usually does. They wonder where his thoughts are. Back at home, maybe? With a sibling or a friend? A lover, perhaps…?

“What troubles you enough to keep you quiet?” Bloodhound asks suddenly, ignoring the strange surge of annoyance they feel at that last thought. “I have never known you to be _leynilega manneskju._ ” 

“What does that mean?” Elliott asks, looking a little baffled.

“It means… a secretive person,” Bloodhound offers. “You often speak your mind, even when no one is listening. What has changed?”

“Well, uh, that’s really perceptive of you.” Elliott’s voice is tight, and maybe even a little annoyed. “How are you able to tell? You did it just then, and then you did it in the hospital the other day after that shitty match of ours. How can you tell something’s bothering me?”

“Well… Your performance in the Games as of late does not meet the potential I know you to be capable of. You are reckless and run into fights without thinking. You broke a glass in the bar the other night because you were cleaning it too vigorously. Looking at the sunset in the hospital made you pensive and sad. I frequent this rooftop most evenings, and I have never seen you here. You clearly came up here to find a place to be alone.” Bloodhound thinks all of these signs make it obvious, but they decide not to say so. 

“Um, ouch,” Elliott says, feigning shock.“That’s r- ridi- uh, _stupidly_ accurate. You know, a lot of rumors fly about you, but I didn’t ever think the one about you being a psychic extraordinaire would be true.”

“I am no psychic, Elliott,” they reply. They finish their braid, but realize too late they do not have anything to tie it back with. They sigh and let their hair fall loose. “Let the people think what they wish. I am simply observant.”

“Right.” Elliott does not sound convinced. He falls silent for a moment, then, “You said the other night that you’ve lost family members. What happened to them?”

Images of their parents and uncle and other tribesmen flood their mind unbidden, and they let them come, passing over the memories with a quiet acceptance. “They honored the Allfather with their dying breaths,” they say, their voice almost a whisper. “They fought bravely, but their path was made.”

“They died in combat?”

“...Not all of them. Some died because of the IMC’s meddling foolishness, but some died fighting, yes.”

“I’m sorry.” He is silent for a moment, thinking. “If… if they were still alive today, but they couldn’t remember who you were, what would you do?”

Bloodhound’s breath catches in their throat, and they look at Elliott’s face, searching for meaning. He is staring directly at them, making eye contact, even through the goggles. They have never seen any of their teammates quite so vulnerable, quite so trusting, and they don’t know what to do with it. “I suppose… I would make sure they knew they were safe and cared for.” They pause. “Elliott, I wish to make it clear that you do not need to tell me anything you do not wish to,” they say, turning to face him as they speak.

“Only seems fair,” he replies, a glimmer of his usual charm and wit returning. “I invaded your privacy, now you get to intrude on mine.”

Bloodhound mulls this over for a moment, but relents, half a smile crossing their face. 

“Fair enough.”

The bravado disappears once more, and Elliott sighs. He is silent for a long time as he thinks. His head tilts as he looks up to the sky. “It’s my mom,” he murmurs, and it feels like a confession, or a confirmation to himself. “She can’t remember me. She didn’t recognize my voice over the phone when we talked earlier. I knew this was coming, but I thought I had…” His voice trails off, and Bloodhound knows his silence is not because he is searching for words.

“More time,” they finish for him. They meet Elliott’s gaze, but he looks away quickly. The silence hangs between them awkwardly at first, but the discomfort dissipates as Bloodhound waits patiently for the man before them to regain his composure. 

“We are blessed to have loved so much that loss hurts us,” they murmur, once Elliott meets their eyes again. They weigh a choice in their head, mulling it back and forth. The desire to be open with him, the desire for connection, wins out. “As a child, my _faðir_ and _móðir_ taught me to honor the pain I felt. When they passed, I was plagued by grief and sadness for a very long time. Though there is still pain and anger at times, I allow myself to feel it so that I can let it pass.”

“But… how do you know when it will end? Or if it will?” Elliot asks. He looks guarded, but vulnerable all at the same time. Bloodhound knows the feeling. 

They consider his query, pausing to find the right words. “Pain and grief and sadness… These things are not bound by time. We all move through them at different rates. But if you allow yourself to be plagued by the ‘what if’s’, you will never see what is right there in front of you.”

The man beside him is quiet for a very long time, and Bloodhound begins to fear they have offended him. Mirage was never quiet, and they realize how unsettling it is that he does not have a funny quip or self-deprecating comment to make. He was always running his mouth, letting the most absurd things pop out. But not this evening. He is quieter than he has ever been. They almost… miss his voice. _He has spoken to you much this evening,_ they think, a little bewildered at their own emotions. _You have no reason to miss it._ But it didn’t matter- a feeling of fondness grows under Bloodhound’s sternum, and for once in their life, they do not try to compress it.

“Thank you.” 

Elliott’s voice is soft and accepting and all the things Bloodhound had hoped to hear. 

“I am glad I could be of help to you.” The silence stretches between them again, comfortably this time. A pleasant breeze flows across the roof, and Bloodhound embraces it, inhaling deeply. They smell the usual smog of the city, but it is accompanied by something gentler. Something warmer. And as their eyes wander back over to their companion, they suspect...

“By the way, you’ve got a hell of a throwing arm,” Elliott remarks. “My forehead is still sore from this morning. Don’t worry though, I just shook it off like I always do.” His bravado has returned, and it makes Bloodhound smile.

“I do what I must to _vinna_ ,” they say, briefly adopting a tone much too harsh and serious for their current conversation. Elliott fake cowers, taking a couple of steps back. 

“Whoa, alright then!” he laughs. “You know, I can never tell what you’re thinking under there. You could be sc- sco- uh, frowning at me, and I wouldn’t know any better. Makes you look kind of scary.”

“I will admit, that is part of the reason I wear it,” Bloodhound says, smiling wider now. “Intimidation is a powerful weapon.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” he says, raising his hands in a placating gesture, but laughing again. Bloodhound finds themself staring at him, at his smile, and for once they feel… seen. Comfortable. They know, for some unknown reason, that Elliott Witt is someone to be trusted.

“Hey, thanks again,” he continues. “And don’t worry, I won’t go telling everyone that the great Bloodhound is secretly a total heartthrob. The press would have a field day. They wouldn’t be able to handle it. God knows I can't.”

Bloodhound stares at him, open mouthed- but it wasn’t like he could tell, anyway.

Elliott realizes what he has said much too late, and his eyes widen to the size of dinner plates. His cheeks darken as he blushes, and he immediately splutters, “I- uh- oh my God was that out loud? I’m, uh… I’m just… gonna go…” He dashes for the door to the roof, leaving a stunned Bloodhound behind. He twists the door handle, but it does not budge.

They are locked on the roof. 

And Bloodhound laughs. 

It’s a giggle at first, but it turns into full chested, dizzying laughter in no time. They do not remember the last time they had felt such joy, such freedom. It must have been when they were a child. But this man, this trickster, has managed to find that young one again and bring them forward into the light. Their eyes sting, and to their surprise, tears of laughter begin to fall and fog up their goggles. They turn away from a very bewildered and horrified Elliott in order to lift the goggles and wipe away the mist. 

_“Fyrirgefðu mér, vinur minn,_ ” they choke, the laughter beginning to constrict their scarred lungs. “I am not laughing at you. I am laughing at the poor luck we have had this evening.” They breathe hard, clutching their chest, trying to get some air in. When the laughter has settled to the occasional chuckle, they turn back to Elliott, and they are surprised to find him leaning against the door, his face buried in the silver metal. He’s mumbling to himself, and Bloodhound cannot make out any words other than “stupid” and “damn”. 

“You flatter me with your kindness,” they say. Still smiling, they walk to him and place a hand on his shoulder. “But I am afraid the press would be quite disappointed. I do not meet their standards of beauty by any means.”

Elliott mutters something that Bloodhound does not catch, but they do not get the chance to clarify. “What do those words mean? The ones you said?” he asks, still blushing furiously. 

“They mean… forgive me, my friend.”

“Your friend, huh?”

Bloodhound considers this. “Yes. I suppose so.”

Elliott takes a deep breath, and even though Bloodhound knows he must be tortured with embarrassment, he looks them directly in the face. “If you tell anyone what I just said, I’m gonna… I’m gonna kick your ass. In the arena and out of it.” 

This earns him another laugh. “I would not dream of it.” The both of them notice that Bloodhound’s ungloved hand is still on his shoulder, and the latter removes it gently, their fingers ghosting across the soft fabric of Elliott’s hooded sweatshirt. He notices their lingering touch, and only blushes more.

Elliott shakes himself out of his daze, pulls out his phone, and types a quick message. The chime of a returning text rings through the air faster than Bloodhound thought was possible. “There. Octavio is coming to unlock the door. You’d better put your helmet on quick, because he’ll be here faster than I can say ‘pork chops’.”

Bloodhound obliges, and crosses back to where they had left their helmet and gloves. They pick up their helmet and store it beneath their arm as they gather up their hair and twist it expertly atop their head. Once the helmet is fastened, they don their gloves once more. True to Elliott’s word, the rooftop door clatters and swings open. Octavio, still wearing a gaming headset, looks impatient. 

“You owe me for this one, _amigo,_ ” he whines, tapping his metal foot and glaring at Mirage through his goggles. “I lost my game for you!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Elliot replies, grabbing hold of the door and waving him off. “Next round of drinks at the bar is on the house. How about that?”

“Sweet!” the shorter man crows, and he rockets back down the stairs.

“The last thing he needs is alcohol,” Bloodhound remarks, tucking a stray piece of hair away. They highly doubt Octane even noticed they were there, but they do not mind. That just meant there would be less questions toward the pair of them later.

Elliott rolls his eyes. “Don’t go all Ajay on me now,” he teases. “And we were just starting to get along.” A faux wistful look appears in his eyes, and he sighs dramatically.

Bloodhound just smiles. 

The pair of them descend a few flights of stairs and arrive at Bloodhound’s floor. “Thanks again for the advice,” Elliott says. “I appreciate it.”

“You are welcome,” they reply. “Sleep well, Elliott.”

“You too, Bloodhound.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of popped off with this one. This chapter alone is 4488 words, and all four previous chapters combined were roughly 4500 words so... Listen, don't come for me. But also do, in the comments. Alright bye.


	6. street walkers, small talkers

The three of them land in Thermal, blessedly alone. Wattson had been more than happy to agree to play today’s match more passively, and Lifeline had agreed, though Elliott could tell she really didn’t want to.

“Looking for a Wingman today, ladies,” Mirage announces, jogging over to the next supply bin. It’s got a box of heavy ammo, which he stows, and two Mozambique’s, which he steadily ignores. His brain feels foggy but over excited at the same time. The shock of seeing Bloodhound- actually seeing their face- had not quite worn off. 

_He flings open the door but stops dead in his tracks, words dying in his mouth. For a moment, a moment that seems to stretch out into lifetimes, all he sees is a person sitting on the hard cement floor- the most beautiful person he’s ever seen. His jaw drops open. Their face is surprised, shocked, but somehow, that makes Elliott find them all the more gorgeous. A strong jawline gives way to defined cheekbones, leading up to stunning green eyes that are filled with alarm. Their red hair falls around their face in long waves, and is set aflame by the light of the hallway behind him. Who is this person? His eyes flicker down to whatever they’re holding in their hands, and he swears his heart stops. He knows those goggles. They belong to Bloodhound._

_Which means… that’s Bloodhound sitting there on the floor._

_Elliott immediately smacks his hand over his eyes as words spill out of his mouth like a waterfall._

He’d been up most of the night, replaying those moments in his head over and over again. Bloodhound had not looked at all what he thought they would look like. And their hair! Their hair was incredible. He never expected it to be ginger; for some reason he had always imagined it dark, maybe brunette or black. All Elliott could think about was running his fingers through their hair and brushing out the tangles. But their eyes… he never would have guessed they’d be such a gorgeous shade of green. And they were so kind-looking, too. Ever since he had inadvertently seen their face, his stomach did flips every time he thought about them. He’d stayed awake for hours waiting for his body to settle. 

Elliott remembers how rich and melodic their real voice had sounded without the modulator, and he finds himself wishing he could go back to the night before. He’d been an absolute mess in multiple ways, but being alone with Bloodhound was worth the turmoil. And their laugh! Even though it came mostly at his expense, he had nearly lost his mind actually hearing them laugh fully and uninhibited. If he focused hard enough he could hear it over and over again in his head, and the sound of it made him a little weak at the knees. 

“Wingman here!” Lifeline calls. “Get yuh head out of the clouds, Witt!”

Mirage shakes himself from his reverie and looks up. Lifeline holds the sturdy pistol aloft, smirking.

“Thanks, I owe you one!” he replies. He makes his way over to her and picks up the gun, passing it back and forth between his hands. Elliott can’t help but smile as he remembers the last time he fired a Wingman. _Well, I mean, technically you fired it this morning at the range but- whatever._ He grins at the memory of shooting the gun at Bloodhound as they rocketed down the hill, glowing red. But now, a different image takes form in the forefront of his mind- Bloodhound flying across the field, their hair undone and billowing in a fury, their green eyes shimmering with golden light.

“Yuh gonna get a room with that thing?” Lifeline chimes, a laugh pressing at her voice. “Looks like you two need some alone time.”

“Wh- what?” Mirage stammers, jerking himself out of his thoughts for the second time that day. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He holsters the gun as his face burns fiercely.

* * *

“Mirage! Duck!”

Mirage dives away from the door just as a volley of bullets comes whizzing through it. He slams it shut. “Good one, Nat!” he calls. Wattson is crouched next to the window, reloading her R-99 with flying fingers. Her pylon whizzes in the other room, generating a field of electrical energy that makes Mirage’s sinuses buzz. She sets the gun aside for a brief moment in order to place two fence posts in front of the door.

In their oh-so-fabulous luck, the final ring just so happened to be around Fragment, which had made the match a decent trek across the map. They’d held their own considerably well, and each of them had a few kills under their belts. The ring had nearly bottlenecked them in the pass between Sorting and their current location, but they had pushed up the hill, third partying a team on the way and coming out victorious.

A frag grenade comes careening through the window, only to be immediately neutralized in a flash of blue light. _Thank God for Wattson’s pylon,_ Mirage thinks, slotting the Skullpiercer he had just found into his Wingman. The sounds of gunfire and exploding grenades pepper the air around him, and it’s giving him a headache. “Hey, Lifeline! Would you mind tossing down a care package to give us some cover?” he yells into the comms amidst all the noise. 

“Won’t do much, seein’ as we’re on the second floor, but I can try an’ block the stairs, she replies. She’s crouched in the corner, her drone glowing and whirring beside her. Pulling out a small device that looks vaguely like a grocery store scanner, she leaps down the stairs and out of sight. Mirage sends a decoy after her for good measure. 

Very near his head, the occasional bullet whistles through the window, coming dangerously close to both him and Wattson. He’s not sure who’s shooting at them, but he has a vague idea- only Bangalore is that accurate with the G7. He scoots over to the side and peeks through the window to try and get a look at who’s been wailing on them. Sure enough, a woman with a tidy stack of curly hair is crouched low, aiming down the sights of her scout rifle from the building across from them.

“Having fun out there, Williams?” Mirage yells across the way after he dives out of sight once more. He’s almost positive she can’t hear him, but he says it anyway. 

“Is that you, Witt?” she yells back. “Might wanna get your head out of your ass and fight, instead of hiding like a coward!” Two warning shots fly through the window, and Mirage scoots away, his heart hammering in his chest. Wattson mutters something in French that he does not understand as she reaches for her Triple Take. 

_Ouch._ Now he’s annoyed. He registers the sound of Lifeline’s care package slamming into the ground as he peeks out the window again, gripping his Wingman tightly. A large smoke grenade canister flies towards them but is zapped away by Wattson’s pylon. _Now they’re just taunting us,_ he thinks. He takes careful aim at Bangalore’s head, but two shots from her G7 strike him in the shoulder, throwing him back. A low humming sound emanates from his shield as the pylon recharges it, and he starts to think, hard.

An ominous humming sound fills the air, and Mirage snaps his head up just in time to see Bangalore and Pathfinder running across the open square. The familiar whine of Gibraltar’s Ultimate fills the air, and missiles begin to strike the ground in a concussive barrage that makes Mirage’s ears hurt. To his dismay, Pathfinder quickly grapples away, but not after taking a hit or two. Bangalore dashes between the missiles but takes a large amount of damage, and she stumbles. 

_Perfect,_ Mirage thinks. He waits for the barrage to stop, and throws open the door. He leaps from the balcony and hits the ground hard, his knees groaning in protest. Through the smoke, the sights of his Wingman detect a red figure, and Mirage takes aim. It only takes two well placed shots to finish her off, and Bangalore falls to the ground, swearing. “What was that about me being a coward?” he taunts as Bangalore fades away.

She tries to choke something out, but she only spits blood. Mirage can’t help but feel a little sorry for her; he had been in the same position not too long ago. Bangalore slumps to the ground with a finality, just as the smoke clears. A short distance away, Lifeline stands over an incapacitated Pathfinder, and Wattson is keeping up a steady rhythm of sniper shots in the direction they had run from. Mirage ducks behind the pillars outside the building and reloads his gun. “I think there are only four people left!” he announces.

_kzzzhhhCRACK!_

Elliott’s blood crystallizes into ice inside his veins. He knows that sound. And he knows who is holding the fully charged Sentinel that made it. 

Right in front of his eyes, Lifeline falls to the ground. Her head is bleeding in waves, and she isn’t moving. Without thinking, he leaves his cover and runs towards Lifeline’s eerily still form. _kzzzhhhCRACK!_ Another shot divides the air around him, and the next shot connects with his head, pain blooming across his skull. His helmet fizzles out, and with no hesitation, he activates his Ultimate. The holo-emitters hum and buzz, and five decoys jump into being around him. Abandoning Lifeline’s body, he makes a mad dash for the building where Wattson is still camped, hoping and praying her pylon is still up. 

The frightful buzz of a Charge Rifle chases him in bursts, and the heat of it catches his left shoulder for a brief moment. He hisses in pain, and dives behind the pillars, tucking into a deft tumble. Mirage pops to his feet and pushes the doors open. To his utter dismay, the doors shred into tiny pieces, neutralized by Wattson’s electric fences. “Dammit!” he yells, and rushes up the stairs.

Wattson is still crouched at the window, steadily shooting at the building with four bins atop it across the way. “Lifeline got Sentinel’d,” he gasps, breathing heavily. “Who’s left?”

“I believe Caustic is the third member of Bangalore and Pathfinder’s squad,” she answers, her voice even and calm as he plunges his arm into a shield battery. “I think the other remaining squad is Bloodhound, Gibraltar, and Renee.”

Mirage notes with a curiosity that Wattson had not used Wraith’s code name, and he wonders in a wild moment if there was something Wattson wasn’t telling him. He finds himself wishing he knew Bloodhound’s name, and wondering what it would feel like to whisper their name in their ear as he-

He stops that train of thought as swiftly as it had come. _Focus, dumbass!_ Elliott shakes himself out of his thoughts once again, discards the depleted battery, and realizes with a jolt that he’d missed the last thing Wattson had said.

“Mirage?” she asks, her voice exuding patience even amidst their tense situation.

“Sorry, what did you say?”

“We can still win this. I know we can!” She gives him a smile that punches him straight in the heart with how honest and sincere it is. 

“You’re so damn wholesome,” he grumbles under his breath. “Alright, how are we going to do this?”

“Well,” she considers, turning back to her sniper rifle. “I am almost positive- get it?- that Caustic has barricaded himself in the train station. I saw him run over when Gibraltar sent his missiles down. Bloodhound and their team must be over near the survey beacon- that is where Lifeline was shot from.”

Mirage nods, digesting the information. “Okay, so do you think we should try and take the train station and get set up in there?”

“It’s worth a shot,” she replies. “We can make a detour through the building to our right so we are not sniped. I will also need to find more ammo for my R-99.”

“Sounds good.” He peeks out the window one last time, and sure enough, he spots a familiar figure squatting atop a building, above the zipline shaft. He swears his heart skips a beat or two at the sight of them holding the Sentinel steady. _kzzzhhhCRACK!_ A bullet comes whizzing through the window and Mirage dodges it, but just barely. “All right, time to leave!”

Wattson dismantles her pylon with the press of a button and loads it onto her back. Mirage’s sinuses stop buzzing, and he scratches his nose as the two of them run down the stairs and out the door. They round the corner, and a giddy delight shoots through Mirage’s veins when he sees Lifeline’s care package. A Mastiff hangs from one side of the package, blessedly out of Bloodhound’s line of sight. “Oh, _hell_ yes!” Mirage yells, and he immediately dashes up to grab it. Wattson continues on, running towards the door of the next building. The shotgun almost seems to vibrate in his hands as he picks it up and discards his Spitfire. It takes everything in him to not jump in the air like a twelve-year-old. 

“Mirage!” Wattson calls.

“Yeah, coming!” He slings the large shotgun over his back and darts across the open space and into the next building. The air is eerily silent, and the lack of noise makes Elliott nervous. The pair of them pass through the lobby to the double doors, and Mirage peeks through the blue glass as Wattson picks up more light ammo. Sure enough, he can just barely make out the edge of a gas trap pressed against the inside of the doors to the train station. How those doors hadn’t been blown up yet was anyone’s guess. He fishes in his bag for an arc star and emerges victorious. Bloodhound and their team shouldn’t have a line of sight on them, so he readies the arc star and opens the door. Mirage lobs the grenade as hard as he can across the street and into the double doors, and they explode in a fantastic flash of blue light. Caustic’s gas trap bursts open, spewing toxic green fumes everywhere before it collapses in on itself with an ominous hiss. 

“Excellent!” Wattson exclaims, readying a fence post. “Try to get around to the north side of the building. I will fence this door.” She crouches low, checks their surroundings, and runs full speed across the street. Elliott follows, but turns sharply and hugs the wall northward. He peeks around the corner, holding his breath, Mastiff at the ready. No one is there, so he sneaks along the wall and crouches just outside the door. He readies a frag grenade, pulls the pin, and places it outside the doors before sprinting back the way he came. A deafening _boom_ wrecks his ears for just a moment, and he can just barely make out the horrible spitting noise of the gas trap as it goes off. 

Ears ringing, he turns and begins running toward the doors again. Just as the smoke and gas dissipate, he gains sight of a hulking figure lumbering down the stars. Mirage raises his Wingman, but he is too late. An entire clip of Flatline ammo slams into his chest, shredding through his armor and peppering him with holes. But his body is nothing more than blue-white light, and he flashes out of existence.

The real Mirage can’t help but giggle as his decoy dissolves into the air. “You got bamboozled,” he murmurs to himself, absolutely delighted. He checks his weapons, making sure they’re reloaded, and grabs his last grenade. Mirage twists the canister and throws the thermite. It slams into the ground just inside the doors and expands off to either side, sputtering and whooshing. He hears a grunt of pain and knows that Caustic has been caught in some of the blaze.

Mirage cheers silently and hefts his Mastiff into his hands. He prays that Wattson has had enough time to block off all the doors, and he sprints over. Caustic runs to the west side of the building, and immediately gets caught by a torrent of bullets from Wattson’s R-99. Mirage leaps over the wall of fire, aims down the sights of his Mastiff and pulls the trigger. A collection of bullets hits Caustic in the shoulder and back as the bigger man turns, making his shield blink and shatter. Wattson takes advantage of his distraction and shoots him squarely in the head. Caustic hits the ground immediately, and Mirage is reminded of the day before, when Bloodhound had taken him down. _Andskoti,_ he thinks. He doesn’t really know what the word means, but he’s pretty sure it’s some kind of insult. 

Elliott finally notices the dull burning in his legs, just as the thermite grenade stops pulsing. His shield has been depleted almost completely. “Hey, Wattson, do you have another pylon?” he asks, fishing in his bag for a shield cell. 

She nods, breathing hard. “Got it!” The pylon is up instantly, and the familiar buzzing returns to Mirage’s nose. “Only one squad left!” Wattson says happily, running over to the north door to place fences. “We’ve got this!”

“We’re not done yet,” Mirage says, just as a very familiar sound vibrates through the air. It reaches his chest, seizing his heart and squeezing it uncomfortably. That otherworldly roar that had haunted Mirage in his dreams the night before echoes and amplifies inside his skull until his temples creak and groan. But he can’t help but love it; he can’t help but love the way Bloodhound’s voice reverberates inside his skull and overwhelms his senses.

Much too late, he notices that Wattson’s fence posts outside the west door have been shot down. An arc star comes careening across the way, but it is zapped away. Mirage finds himself thanking whatever God there is for Wattson’s pylon for the second time that day. He loots Caustic’s death box in a hurry and grabs the three frag grenades he had been stashing, as well as a shield battery. 

A wave of red-orange energy buzzes through the air around them, making the hair on Mirage’s arms stand up inside his suit. “Bloodhound’s got us!” he yells to Wattson, who has just finished fencing the exits. 

“Watch the south door!” Wattson calls. Mirage rushes by her and runs up the south-side staircase. He lingers on the balcony, Wingman at the ready. 

The sound of footsteps echoes all around him, and he starts to feel jittery and anxious. Where are they going to come through first? Can he and Wattson really hold off all three of them? Is he going to be able to keep himself together? He hopes so, but the fear is starting to overtake him again, and he does not like it.

The east doors swing open and instantly shatter when they make contact with Wattson’s interior fence. Mirage leaps off the short balcony in an instant to bar the entrance. Gibraltar is on the other side of the fences, and he fires a volley of bullets very close to Mirage’s head. Some of them connect with his shoulder, but Mirage dodges out of the way and fires his Wingman. One shot connects with Gibraltar’s head, and the next three hit his shoulder and chest. He wavers, and his R-301 nearly topples out of his hands as he stumbles backwards. The larger man fires at the ground, but not by accident- Wattson’s fence sputters and disappears. Mirage fires one more shot at Gibraltar, and the man topples to the ground, dropping his gun. To Mirage’s dismay, Gibraltar falls into a blue-black rift and disappears, going with a flash of white light. 

“Wraith set a portal!” he yells to Wattson. “I downed Gibraltar but he’s gone!”

“I am busy!” she yells back. Wattson dodges out of the way in a spectacular roll as Wraith takes a well-calculated swipe at her with a deadly looking knife. The two women fight each other expertly, a whirl of fists and bullets and knives. _The east fence must be out,_ Mirage realizes. Gunfire echoes around him, and he turns back to the portal just in time to see Bloodhound emerge from it, eyes glowing red as they leap towards him.

Once again, time slows to a horrifying pace and Elliott’s heart beats immeasurably fast. He doesn’t know how many seconds have passed, but all he can see is Bloodhound. He imagines them charging at him, their blazing hair undone and their eyes glowing gold. For a wild moment, the feeling of wanting to surrender returns. But he shakes himself and releases every decoy he has, and then cloaks himself and runs up the stairs. 

Another wave of red-orange light vibrates through the building. _Dammit_ , he thinks. Bloodhound immediately follows him up the stairs, breathing heavily, growling intermittently. Mirage reloads his Wingman and darts up to the roof, hoping and praying that Bloodhound did not have time to revive Gibraltar before coming through the portal.

He leaps over the train tracks and takes cover behind a pillar. He tosses out another decoy, hoping to buy himself a few seconds, but Bloodhound is smart; they do not shoot at the hologram. Mirage switches to his Mastiff and turns sharply, aiming at his opponent. The hefty shotgun jerks massively as he shoots, missing Bloodhound’s quick form, but only just. Bloodhound aims their RE-45 at him, holding it steady. A brief buzzing noise fills the air as the bullets exit their gun and hit Mirage squarely in the chest and neck. His shields sputter, but just barely hold, and he fires another shot from the Mastiff at Bloodhound. It hits them in the shoulder, taking a sizable chunk out of their shields. Without hesitation, Mirage throws himself off the roof and tumbles to the ground, his ankles screaming in protest. He dives into the east doors, and realizes he was right- Wraith must have broken the fence that was there. He glances over to the corner where Wraith and Wattson had been, and notices that they have somehow downed each other. He tries to slide over to his teammate, but Bloodhound is right behind him, and a spattering of bullets crosses the floor without hitting him. _Warning shots?_ he thinks wildly. _Why the hell-_

Mirage scrambles to his feet and runs down the stairs. He reloads the Mastiff and turns, hearing their footsteps behind him. They level their gun and shoot, catching his shoulder and cheek. Mirage’s helmet blinks out of existence, and so does his shield. He ducks and fires the Mastiff, hitting Bloodhound right in the neck. Their helmet and shields sputter and die, just as they’re reloading the RE. Blood seeps down their neck from under their respirator, and a wild part of Elliott wants to stop the fight right then and there in order to clean their wounds himself.

But this moment of weakness costs him dearly, because Bloodhound seizes their opportunity and fires their last remaining clip of ammo at him.

_“Þú barðist vel. Ég er stolt af þér,”_ they say to him after he falls to the ground. The victory music begins to blare over the loudspeakers, and the last thing Mirage feels before it all goes dark is Bloodhound picking up his Mastiff and placing it on his chest under his arm, their fingers lingering on his hand for the briefest of moments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience on this, guys! I didn't feel super motivated to keep going with this for a while, but I eventually started coming up with a better framework and I'm super excited to show you all what's to come. 
> 
> I kind of have this idea that all the contestants have this safety armor on under their actual shields and uniforms so that when they take enough damage to “die”, their bodies are transmatted to the dropship or something. I don’t know how it works in-universe, so that’s what we’re going with. No one actually dies, they just “die” while the safety armor saves them and transmats them. Can’t have the Legends perma-dying, now, can we?


	7. i carry more than you see

A gloved hand meets smooth steel and pushes gently, opening the door. The hinges whine for a moment before going quiet. Bloodhound exits their apartment, locks the door behind them, and heads for the stairs to the roof.

They know they can very well take the elevator and avoid the extra strain, but a part of them needs the burn. They need the dull scorch in their chest to keep them going. To keep them sane. To remind them why they’re here. After all, it’s only a few flights from their floor to the roof. They can manage. 

They pass Octavio’s apartment on their way, and they smile. Loud engine noises beat through the walls as Octavio plays yet another racing game. Bloodhound was sure his pursuit of speed and adrenaline would slow to a crawl one day, but certainly not yet. 

Reaching the stairwell, they pull out their phone for a brief moment. It’s a simple thing, not at all fancy like those belonging to their fellow Legends, but it does the job. As usual, the screen is blank and wordless, showing only the time in white numbers against a blank background. For a moment they wish that someone would send them a message, but who do they know that would? They stuff the phone back into the pocket of their thick outer jacket and sigh, annoyed with themself. 

As they ascend the stairs, the familiar ache in the lungs reminds them of the first time they’d tried to navigate a stairwell after the accident. The steep, sturdy staircase leading up to their room in the loft of Artur’s home became a behemoth, an impossible obstacle to overcome for so long. They had made it up halfway before their lungs screamed at them to stop. They’d collapsed onto the steps, weeping brokenly, and abandoned their attempt, opting to burrow into a pile of warm furs on the bottom floor instead. The coolant in their lungs had frozen and damaged some of their lung tissue, and the village medics told them they were extremely lucky to be alive. The respirator they had found proved to be an essential part of their life, and they had used many over the years since then. 

Now, as they near the top, their lungs burn but they do not falter. They scale the last few steps with ease, inhaling deeply. The air that passes down their throat to their creaking lungs soothes each protesting corner and calms the heat that circulates inside. Bloodhound places a hand over their heart, willing it to slow, willing it to return to its normal rhythm.Their blood pumps hard, flowing throughout their body, filling them with a sense of satisfaction. It had been many, many years since the accident, but they still felt a quiet sense of pride and assurance when they could scale a flight of stairs. 

_Quite ironic, is it not?_ Bloodhound thinks. They risked their life every day, killing and hunting and killing again, but the most meaningful victory was standing at the top of a staircase, knowing they had made it. But why? Why did that matter so much, when their prowess as a hunter was so much more important? They push at the door to the roof and it swings open with a heavy _creak_.

A cold chill runs across their skin and they stuff their gloved hands into their pockets. Bloodhound breathes deeply, letting the cool air tickle their throat on the way down. 

“Um…”

They jump, and turn to their left. To their surprise, Elliott stands there in the corner, holding a bottle of beer, and the energy around him is suspiciously sad and forlorn again. His eyes are gleaming dully, and Bloodhound realizes they have walked in on a very private moment.

“Elliott,” they say, their voice coming out much too high, even through the modulator. They clear their throat, and continue. “My apologies. I do not wish to interrupt you. I will leave, if that is what you desire.”

“No, no, it’s okay. Really.” Elliott’s voice is quiet and tight, like it was the last time they had found each other here. He sniffs, and Bloodhound averts their eyes as he turns away, a hand going to his face. 

“If you are certain…” Bloodhound trails off, waiting for a response. Elliott gives none, so Bloodhound crosses over to him, but leaves a respectable distance between them. 

Neither of them say anything for several minutes. Elliott occasionally takes a drink from his bottle, and soon drains it completely. It clinks as he sets it down on the ground. He sighs and leans against the balcony, propping himself up with his elbows. Bloodhound runs their fingers over the rough stone. They let their thoughts wander here and there, but they occasionally glance over at Elliott. His expression is far away and glassy, but not from alcohol- he doesn’t seem to be drunk. 

“What troubles you, _félagi?_ ” they ask softly. 

Elliott snorts, a short sound filled with derision and a surprising amount of venom. “What _doesn’t_ trouble me?” he replies, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Seems like I can barely keep my head on straight these days.”

“What is it you need?” Bloodhound asks, and a strange desire to put their hand on his arm takes place under their sternum. They ignore it.

Elliott sighs heavily, and massages his temples. “I…” He breaks off, his voice giving out. His next words come out in a tangled, frustrated tumble. “I need to stop being such a useless mess in the Games, I need my mom to stop losing her goddamn mind, I need my dad to stop being such a dickhead, I need my brothers to come out of whatever fucking hiding hole they’re in and _help me_ , goddammit-” His voice breaks again, and his jaw is set and trembling. The sudden surge of anger startles Bloodhound; he had not seemed to be quite so agitated when they arrived. His eyes shine again, and he shakes his head, staring at his hands.

Bloodhound moves as though they are in a dream, and before they know what they’re doing, they’re at his side. They touch his shoulder, and squeeze it gently. Elliott jumps, but relaxes into their touch. He stands straight for a few more moments, shaking slightly, then he groans. “God, I’m so pathetic, sorry,” he says, his voice constricted. “I can’t believe I’m actually crying right now. And in front of you, too. The last person I want to cry in front of.” He wipes his face angrily and shakes Bloodhound’s hand off as he walks away. His foot collides with the beer bottle, and it goes skittering across the floor, clinking faintly.

Their hand is cold as they bring it back to their side. Discomfort and rejection pool in their stomach, but they press it down, promising themself they will process it later. “You are neither useless nor pathetic, Elliott,” they assert. “Your emotions do not make you a lesser person. They make you strong.”

“Strong?” He laughs, and it hurts. “Strong? You’re kidding, right? You’re going to stand there and look at me and tell me I’m strong?” His words are scathing, and he glares at them, angry and in pain.

“Yes, Elliott, I am,” they shoot back. “Because despite your poor opinion of yourself, you are a worthy teammate. I quite enjoy fighting by your side.”

“But _why?_ ” he asks, his voice becoming more emphatic. He’s pacing, his hands knotting in his voluminous hair. “ _Why_ , Bloodhound? Nothing about me has been strong lately. I lose it every time I hear my mom’s voice on the phone and she asks who she’s talking to. I’m her _son_. She should know me!” he gasps, anguish working its way across his face. “And my useless shithead of a dad d- des- _abandons_ us just as soon as things get shitty, only to come _crawling_ back the second he gets wind of his youngest son being in the Apex Games. Everyone knows the only thing he’s after is the money- he can’t be bothered to step back in and be an actual dad. He wasn’t even that great anyway.” Elliott trembles as he speaks, spitting out the words like they’re poison in his veins, left by the gaping maw of some unseen, ravenous creature. 

“And then my glorious, wonderful, _perfect_ brothers all ran off to join the fight when the war started. They all had something to prove, something to hold themselves up to. Dumbasses just wanted to be better than their dear old dad. They just left behind their kid brother to grow up alone and wonder where they’d gone.” His voice breaks again, and Bloodhound has to resist the sudden urge to gather him in their arms. He turns away, and they avert their eyes once more as he shakes.

Bloodhound waits, struggling and grasping to find the right thing to say. They feel different- exposed, or scrutinized, even. They had always been a sympathetic person, but it had been a very long time since they wanted to hold someone the way they wanted to hold Elliott. 

“You are very well within your rights to feel scared and powerless,” Bloodhound soothes, trying to quiet their intrusive thoughts. “All of this is enough to make anyone deeply upset.”

“I don’t have time for this!” Elliott yells, waving his hands wildly. “I don’t have time to process all of this. I need to focus on the Games. It’s been weeks since I came out on top. Every damn time I get close, something goes wrong. I slip up, or I make a dumb decision, or I just sit there staring at you like a dumbass because you’re so—” He stops abruptly, eyes going wide, cheeks turning a brilliant shade of red. “...because you’re such a badass,” he finishes lamely, and he turns away.

Bloodhound remains quiet for a moment, mulling over the implications behind the unspoken words. What was he about to say? It certainly wasn’t “beautiful”— anyone would agree that Bloodhound’s chances of being attractive had splintered like their skin all those years ago. Perhaps it was “skilled”? But no, why would he stop himself from saying that? They close their eyes and push the question away, resolving to think about it another time. 

“My success does not invalidate your worth as a person,” they reply. “Elliott, you are a smart man. You are capable and strong. But if you do not allow yourself to feel these things, they will haunt you forever.”

“And how exactly do you propose that I _feel_ things, huh?” he asks, exasperated and impatient. “This shit sucks, and I’m trying to get _rid_ of it, not keep it around!” He throws his hands in the air and strides away, still fuming. 

Bloodhound sighs. Elliott was many things, but a patient man he was not. 

_"Vinur minn._ Do you trust me?” they ask, both expecting and dreading his answer.

Elliott stops, and turns around just enough for Bloodhound to see the frustration in his eyes barely give way to something softer. Kinder. “I mean… yeah.”

“Come.”

Bloodhound turns away from the city lights and turbulent distractions, heading for the opposite side of the roof. They pick up a pair of cushions from the chairs there, and place them on the floor. The sun is sinking in the sky, and gives the far off trees a golden aura. Bloodhound wishes they could be running among them, feeling the day’s last rays of warmth drain from the world. But it does not matter. Elliott Witt has lost his light, and Bloodhound is here to help him find it again.

They settle onto one of the cushions, sitting cross-legged. Elliott has followed them, but he stares down at them, confused. “Uh… what are we doing, H- I mean, Bloodhound?”

“Please, take a seat,” Bloodhound says, gesturing to the pillow next to them. They pause, then begin to remove their gloves. _The scarring is not as severe there,_ they think. But why are they rationalizing? Why are they worried? They trust Elliott not to tell anyone, and they trust him to not ask any ill-willed questions. They lay the gloves in their lap and weave their fingers together, bringing their hands to rest as Elliott settles on the pillow, still looking bewildered.

“Please take my hands,” they ask, their voice nigh a whisper. Elliott suddenly flushes, but extends his hands nonetheless. A spark of warmth ignites where the first contact is made- his middle finger graces their palm ever so softly- but it spreads and matures into something much more familiar, much more intimate. His hands are bitterly cold. Bloodhound wants to wrap his hands in theirs and hold them until they’re both warm. Part of them retreats and cringes when his fingers pass over their scars, but they resist the urge to draw back. Elliotts emotions are rattled enough, and he does not need any more rejection.

“Breathe with me.” Bloodhound inhales deeply, and Elliott follows suit, looking more and more at ease as time goes by. Air swirls into their lungs, expanding and filling their chest to a comfortable volume. The spaces between Bloodhound’s ribs stretch and extend as they pull their diaphragm down, drinking in the air like it’s a fine wine. Their gaze locks perfectly to Elliott’s, and even through the goggles, Elliott makes direct eye contact. His deep brown eyes are tired, and the bags under them look purple and dark. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days, even though Bloodhound knew that couldn’t be the case. He had very nearly beat them yesterday, after all.

The two of them breathe in tandem for a few moments more, and Elliott’s energy progresses from a writhing roar to a light buzz. “Better?” Bloodhound asks.

“Yeah,” he replies. “How-”

“Trust me,” they implore. 

He nods. 

“When we focus on the breath of life, we are able to filter out the distractions,” Bloodhound says. Their thumbs tenderly caress Elliott’s fingers in a calming motion, pressing soft arcs into his skin. “Tell me, what do you feel when you think of your mother?”

Elliott’s face falls ever so slightly, but he recovers. “I guess… I guess I’m just really… sad,” he murmurs. “I feel… helpless. Powerless. If it was a person causing all of her problems, I would have taken care of it a long time ago, but… this is different.” He swallows hard. “I can’t fight this. Not with a gun or my fists, anyway.” 

Bloodhound nods. “And how do you feel about your father?” 

A spark of anger returns to Elliott’s eyes. He grunts in annoyance, deep in thought for a moment. “He pisses me off. I’d punch him right in the face if he were here now. It would serve him right.”

Bloodhound smiles. The thought of Elliott socking his father in the face seemed amusingly petulant, but they hope they are around to see it one day. “And your brothers?” they ask. “How do you feel about them?

A mix of emotions runs through Elliott’s visage- happiness, fear, despair. “I…” he starts. “I really don’t know. I don’t know how I _should_ feel about them. They piss me off, but… they’re my brothers. I don’t even know if they’re still out there.” He releases Bloodhound’s hands and begins to fidget with his fingers in his lap.

“It is all right to have complicated feelings towards those that have hurt us,” Bloodhound remarks as they settle their own hands onto their knees. Their hands are warm and tingly where he had been touching them. “Our emotions come for us at different times. Some are more devastating than others. Some feel as though they will last forever, but some are fleeting. They can make us feel insignificant. Small, compared to their weight and power. But their gravity cannot consume us unless we allow it to.”

“How do I stop it?” Elliott asks, his voice small and uncertain. “How do I keep from getting sucked in?”

“The answer is simple,” they reply, and they almost smile anticipating his response. “You do not.”

Elliott’s brow furrows, and he gapes at them, open mouthed. Bloodhound wants to laugh, but they hold it back, grateful for their mask for the millionth time. They are not too sure about how he would respond to being laughed at a second time. “Uh… what?” he questions. “You’re telling me that in order to stay in control, I have to… let go of it?”

“Yes.”

“How the _hell_ does that work?” Elliott asks, his tone slightly accusatory. He shifts his weight so that he is leaning back on the palms of his hands.

“Imagine you are in a spacecraft orbiting a planet,” Bloodhound instructs. They gesture with their hands as they speak, weaving their story into being. “Think of that planet as an emotion. It has its own pull, its own gravity. If you turn off the engines, you will be stuck in orbit. If you leave, you will never know whether or not that planet had something valuable for you to discover.”

“So, you’re saying…” Elliott pauses, comically confused. Finally, he sighs, and rubs his eyes tiredly. “What _are_ you saying?”

“Our emotions are not inconveniences, Elliott,” Bloodhound says. “They are lessons in disguise, planets waiting to be explored. We do ourselves a disservice by pushing them away and ignoring them. If we are patient with ourselves, there is much to discover.”

Elliott considers this, his hands still fidgeting. “You’re essentially saying that I need to let myself feel,” he says. Then, the realization drops on him like a ton of bricks. “Oh. _Ohhh._ You- yeah. Of course. Duh.” He blushes red again, and buries his face in his hands. 

“Yes,” Bloodhound replies, smiling fully now. “Allow yourself to experience the emotion. Instead of pushing it away, explore it. Travel alongside it, and take note of what you see. The way may be uncomfortable at times, but you are allowed to feel the pain you bear.”

Elliott remains buried in his hands for a long time, clearly deep in thought. When he emerges, Bloodhound notices that he seems calmer and more level-headed. He looks up at them and smiles, and a strange stilted feeling skips through Bloodhound’s chest. It was almost as if their heart had lost its rhythm for a moment. 

“Thanks,” he mumbles, his face red. “I can be a stubborn idiot sometimes. Doesn’t do me any good.”

“We all have our moments of difficulty,” Bloodhound soothes. “But they do not make us less worthy of assistance.” 

“Caustic would disagree with you,” Elliott scoffs.

“Caustic would be incorrect,” Bloodhound assures, a flash of annoyance flitting through them at the mention of Nox. “That _andskoti_ would benefit from a great deal of assistance.” 

Elliott laughs, and his smile alone is enough to break through the gloom that has been surrounding him all evening. “What does that mean, anyway?” he asks, shaking his head in amusement.

“It most closely means ‘devil’ or ‘demon’,” Bloodhound answers. “It is… unkind, but Doctor Nox is-”

“An asshole, yeah.”

“That is not quite the word I would pick, but yes.” Bloodhound chuckles. “He is.”

They fall quiet, content to sit with him in silence. He’s not even looking at them, but for some reason, it doesn’t matter. Just sitting here with him was enough to still Bloodhound’s thoughts and bring a peace to their soul they had long forgotten.

“And one more thing,” they say, remembering. “The outcome of a match does not lay entirely on your shoulders. The team must work together to bring about a victory.”

“Yeah, but my dumbassery certainly doesn’t help anything,” he grumbles, rolling his neck. Several cracks pop through the air, and he sighs. “I’m sure you never have trouble.”

“We _all_ struggle in the Games,” they respond. “Myself included. Your idolization of me does not improve or indicate my skill level. I am _mannlegur_ , just like you. Human.”

Elliott’s cheeks flush, and he shrugs. “I definitely don’t believe that,” he mutters.

Bloodhound rolls their eyes. They want to take him by the shoulders and hold him there until he stops devaluing himself. “Elliott, the Games are not for the faint of heart,” they assert. “If you were incapable, you would not have survived the first season.” 

“You can say I’m a dumbass, you know,” Elliott says, running a hand through his hair and stretching.

“I do not wish to insult you.”

Elliott rolls his eyes, but smiles faintly. “You wouldn’t be the first.” 

“That is a shame, Elliott,” Bloodhound replies. “I would not consider you to be such.”

He is quiet for a few moments, deep in thought. “Then you’d be a r-rar- you’d be one of the few who didn’t.” He pushes back the sleeves of his sweater, and Bloodhound is momentarily captivated by his well-muscled arms. Something inside them freezes for a half second, then drops into their stomach, and they are very glad he cannot see their face.

“I am sorry you are feeling helpless,” they say, tearing their eyes away from his warm skin to look into his face. “That is a feeling I am familiar with. Please know that you are not alone.” 

“I appreciate it.” Elliott smiles at them again, before getting to his feet and returning to the balcony. Bloodhound follows after putting the pillows back where they belong.

Several silent moments stretch out between the two of them. Bloodhound waits patiently, and gazes out over the busy city. The sun is just setting, and it leaks down past their view, painting the higher windows on the buildings around them in fiery orange. They used to wish they could catch the sun and suspend it right there forever, giving them all the time they needed to think and to grieve. But many years have passed since they were a child, and life does not see fit to slow down and allow them anything.

The last vestiges of the sun soon creep beyond the horizon, and a cold chill fills the air. Bloodhound is quite insulated beneath their thick jacket and woolen sweater, but Elliott begins to shiver, presumably because he is only wearing one layer of clothing. 

“Yikes. This weather’s kinda crazy, huh?” he remarks, rolling his sleeves back down. 

“I had hoped the seasons would delay their changing for a while longer,” they say, “but time waits for no one.” They’re already shrugging off their jacket before they fully register what they’re doing. “Here. Take this for the evening. I will leave you with your thoughts.” They hand their jacket to a bewildered Elliott, who takes it, unsure. 

“Um, are you sure? You wear this thing all the time,” he asks, staring at them hard, his cheeks redder than ever.

“Quite. Leave it on my doorstep, and I will retrieve it in the morning.”

“Okay… if you’re sure.” He slides into the jacket with ease, and Bloodhound is pleased to find that it fits him perfectly. It complements his outfit well, and accentuates his features nicely. “What do you think?” he asks, and he does a slow twirl, examining his new look.

A strange leaping sensation in Bloodhound’s abdomen crackles through their body.

“It suits you,” they say, nodding in approval. Their eyes seem to be glued to his form, admiring his strength and the effort he put into his appearance. Finally, they break their gaze away, shake their head, and begin to move towards the door. “One more thing, Elliott.”

“Yeah?” His head pops up, 

“Do not forget what I told you. You are-”

“‘Allowed to feel the pain I bear’, yeah, I got it,” he repeats, jokingly rolling his eyes. “Don’t you worry about me, Bloodhound, I’ll be just fine.” He gives them an exaggerated wink and a thumbs up, and they can’t help but smile.

“Have a good evening, Elliott,” they say, pulling the door open, making sure it would remain unlocked after they left. 

“Thanks. You, too.”

* * *

When Bloodhound lays in bed that night, their fingers fidget with their hair, working it into twists and plaits and many stranded knots. Their thoughts wander, but always seem to arrive back at Elliott- Elliott smiling, Elliott laughing, even Elliott staring out over the balcony, his eyes shining. As they yank a brush through their hair, their chest pulses pleasantly with the memory of Elliott wrapped in their jacket, and they smile freely, openly, unobscured in the darkness of their room. _Elliott Witt_ , they think. _What a lovely person he is._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh. Here. Have 4100 more words in a chapter. (I don't know how I managed to make it 4100 words on the dot but whatever, it's fine.) It was gonna have 1k more words of backstory, but you'll have to wait till chapter 9 for that. *eyes emoji*
> 
> also don't come for me for the Caustic bashing, he's an excellently written character but also a complete ass
> 
> Thank you for all your lovely words! They really mean so much to me. Not sure how much longer this fic will be, but I'm thinking it'll be like... 15 chapters total maybe? Who knows? See you soon <3


	8. you cannot kill what we are

Bloodhound sits cross-legged on the top of the Epicenter tower, still and silent, hands folded in their lap. Their Kraber lays next to them, easily within grabbing distance. In their hands, they hold a small silver case, and Elliott can’t see what’s inside it. _Maybe a picture of a boyfriend or girlfriend? Or partner?_ Elliott thinks, and a spiky flicker of jealousy rolls through his chest. Bloodhound was free to have any life they wanted, of course. Elliott just wished they would tell him more about who they were. They were so secretive and so private it made him crazy, but he wanted to respect their choices. He would settle for any small bit of information they gave him, and last night’s discussion only proved to make him more interested in them.

It strikes Elliott that it looks as though Bloodhound might be praying. Or meditating. He can’t really tell the difference, because of their mask, and it’s not like he would know the difference if he _could_ see them. Elliott had never been a religious man. Putting hope and faith in some imaginary person never seemed logical for him. But he had to admire Bloodhound’s devotion to their Allfather. They remain still, and their breath through the respirator is even and quiet. He wonders what they’re praying about. He wonders, for the millionth time, why they are so closed off, and why they need the mask. God, he wants to ask so bad, but he won’t. He can’t.

Makoa crouches across from them, watching the hill between Overlook and their current position. He occasionally aims down the sights of his G7 to observe faraway battles and update them on who still remains. Elliott hasn’t ever met someone like Makoa- he was so accepting and supportive of every person around him, which was something Elliott was very grateful for. Anytime he needed a little energy boost, he knew to strike up a casual conversation with him. He was almost like another brother.

His heart clenches at the thought of his brothers, probably dead out in the universe somewhere. It had been so long since he’d seen or heard from any of them, and part of him gave up hope a long time ago. Pain and discomfort begin to creep their way in, and his first instinct is to block it out. But he remembers again what Bloodhound had said to him. _You are allowed to feel the pain you bear._

So he lets it come. 

It washes through him like hot syrup, clinging on to the bruised and broken parts of him as it passes. It hurts horribly for a few awful moments, but begins to subside faster than he thought possible. _Huh. That’s not so bad,_ he thinks. But then it surges up in a fury, grabbing him by the throat and closing his windpipe off. Pain clogs his lungs and cements his airway, making it impossible to breathe. Water floods his chest, but he tries to acknowledge it, to let it reside there. _Uh… just… feel it. Try to feel it._

Time slows to a crawl, and it squeezes Elliott in its static-filled fingers. A thick, buzzing substance descends upon his shoulders and draws all of the air out of his lungs, replacing it with some toxic chemical that numbs his insides on the way down. _Oh, god. This is horrible. This fucking sucks,_ he thinks. He holds himself a little tighter, trying to shake himself out of whatever the hell this is.

“You doing okay, bruddah?” 

Elliott jerks his head up and sees that Makoa has his eyes trained on him, the bigger man’s face full of concern. It’s only then that Elliott realizes he’s not breathing, and he gasps, sucking in air like he’s a man dying of thirst. The static fog around his head subsides somewhat, but stubbornly remains. Nevertheless, he _does_ feel a little better- at least the grief isn’t swallowing him in waves anymore.

“Oh, yeah, I’m great!” he replies, plastering a smile on his face. He gives Makoa a thumbs up. “Don’t worry about me, I was just d- devis- coming up with a battle plan for how we’re gonna win this thing.”

“If you say so,” Gibraltar says, but he doesn’t look altogether convinced. He chuckles and turns back to his sights.

“Remember to breathe, Elliott,” Bloodhound murmurs, not turning to face him. They’re still sitting quietly across the way, their head bowed, the case still resting in their hands. His name on their lips makes a brief flash of excitement zap through him, one which he promptly suppresses. _How the hell did they know?_ he thinks, amazed by them as always. 

“Yeah, yeah,” he replies, rubbing the back of his neck as he tries not to stare at them. He doesn’t really want to sit with these emotions right now, but he does it anyway. The grief is still there, yes, but it’s subsiding, and Elliott can’t be more grateful. A brief surge of embarrassment makes an appearance, and he pushes it away. _Old habits die hard,_ he thinks.

Makoa whistles, sharp and low, and Bloodhound is at his side in an instant. They cradle the Kraber in their hands reverently, and aim down the sights. Mirage pops to his feet, charging up his Holo emitters. Two squads are running down the hill from Overlook, and a third squad is running in from their left. Bloodhound lets out a small sound that can only be a laugh, and Elliott’s stomach jumps sharply. _Not now,_ he thinks, berating himself. He can’t afford to get distracted by them today.

The sound of two Kraber shots ricochets in the air, and Bloodhound jerks back a bit, displaced by the recoil. Right before Elliott’s eyes, two members of one squad drop to the ground, bleeding out. The third member of their squad is quickly taken out by the squad behind them, leaving two squads milling about, about to face off. No- another squad is running in from the right, which means every remaining team must be here. Elliott’s heart begins to pump hard, and he knows that his squad will soon have to jump into the fight. The sound of rapid gunfire fills the air, and electricity shoots through his veins, amping him up, readying him for the struggle ahead, all thoughts of his brothers forgotten.

Mirage pulls out his Wingman, makes sure it’s fully loaded, and spins it around in his grip. He looks over to Gibraltar and Bloodhound. “What’s the plan?” he asks. 

Gibraltar laughs at him. “I thought you had it all figured out, bruddah.” There was no malice in his eyes, just a sense of relentless teasing that makes Elliott relieved.

“Uh…” Elliott’s thoughts are a scramble. He looks over to Bloodhound helplessly, but they only shake their head and cross their arms. God, he hopes they’re smiling. He has no choice but to blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “Um, how about this? Once they’re all a little closer, let’s get Bloodhound on the ground to scan and see who’s nearby. If there’s a bunch of enemies around, then Gibraltar, you can throw your Ultimate down. Some of the missiles might hit the tower, but it will give us enough of a smokescreen to run around and take some suckers out, since Bloodhound can see through smoke and we’ve all got digital threat optics.” The words tumble from his mouth, and even he is surprised by how coherent the plan seems to be. _Huh. Would you look at that?_

“Well planned, _vinur minn,_ ” Bloodhound affirms, a note of amusement in their voice. A giddy sense of pride surges through him, and he’s determined to let that feeling stay as long as it wants.

“You got it, Mirage,” Gibraltar says, clapping him heartily on the back. All of his breath exits his chest in a _whoosh_ , and he stumbles forward, coughing weakly. He can hear gunfire beating a wild tattoo against his ears, and he knows it’s almost time to join the fight.

Makoa tosses his Ultimate canister up and down in his hand, an infectious smile splitting his face. Bloodhound looks over to Elliott, and even through the goggles, their gaze makes him want to blush. Instead, he gives them a cheeky grin and a thumbs up. Bloodhound nods to them, and turns to the balcony under the zipline. They stretch their arms upwards, and then roll their neck, bouncing on the balls of their feet. The hunter takes a brief moment to bow their head once more. They open the service panel on their wrist gear to press a few quick buttons, and Mirage glances down at the squads fighting below.

_They really don’t know what they’re in for,_ he thinks. 

He watches in awe as Bloodhound takes a running leap off the Epicenter tower and howls into the sky, the familiar red hue glowing around them as they plummet to the ground. Their jump pack boosts them just enough so they don’t destroy their knees, and when they hit the snow, they immediately activate their scanner. Nine orangey-red figures highlight through the structures and ice around their team, and Bloodhound yells over the comms, “Gibraltar, _now_!”

Makoa follows suit, hurling his Ultimate canister down between the warring teams. The familiar hum fills the air, and a barrage of missiles scream through the sky. Thick gray smoke descends upon the landscape, and the missiles beat against the ground, creating miniature craters where they explode. “Two down!” Gibraltar announces, examining the scene through the digital sights of his Prowler. “Go get ‘em, Mirage! I’ll be right behind you.”

Mirage hops up and down on the balls of his feet, just like Bloodhound did, and snaps his goggles on. “It’s dupes o’clock!” he says, grinning like a little kid. The adrenaline was really kicking in now, and he feels powerful and confident, for once. He leaps off the tower after Bloodhound and hits the icy ground hard. His knees wobble and his feet ache, but this is no time for hesitation. It’s time to help his team. 

Immediately he takes advantage of the smoke that’s still clouding the air, and sends a decoy running straight through it. He follows it and releases every clone he has. Even though he’s running blind, he trusts himself, because he knows the contour of the area like the back of his hand. Gunfire begins to ring out, and the churning sound of a Devotion greets his ears. Dread threatens to flood his stomach for a brief second, but he acknowledges it and lets it pass, surprised at how quickly it leaves. Three of his decoys are shot down, and Elliott has to smile. Bamboozling his opponents never got old.

A sinister, skeletal shape looms out of the smoke and Elliott cringes. _Why did it have to be the damn murderbot?_ he laments internally. He raises his Wingman, aiming through the sights. Revenant turns to him, highlighted in red, his mechanical hand splitting in two to reveal the silencer. Mirage dodges the huge fiery projectile just barely, and his heart pounds harder than ever before. He aims again and two shots from his pistol connect with Revenant’s chest just as the robot levels his Hemlok. To Elliott’s horror, Revenant disappears in a flash of orange light, no doubt summoned back to his death totem. 

“Dammit!” he yells, and he feels a peppering of bullets smatter against his head and chest. His shields are dangerously low, and as he turns to see his attacker, a hazy red and brown shape flashes past him. Bloodhound sprints across the battlefield, raises their Spitfire and shoots down an unfamiliar face in a matter of seconds. _Must be one of the new hopefuls,_ Elliott thinks wildly, fighting the urge to just stand back and watch Bloodhound dominate the field. They run off behind another glacier in search of their prey.

He shakes his head and continues on.

By his count, there should only be six other people left- two of the previous nine had been taken down by Gibraltar’s Ultimate, and Bloodhound had just finished the third of that squad. He’s not sure who’s left, but he also knows there’s a big chance Revenant’s squad is still intact. His totem tended to complicate things, so Elliott hated trying to win against him. He’s not sure which he prefers- losing to Bloodhound or fighting against a squad of shadows.

The ring was getting closer by the second, and Elliott could almost hear it humming. “We’d better make this quick, guys,” he says over comms. “I like pork chops but I definitely don’t want to become them!”

“Come to me, _félagi_ fighters,” Bloodhound replies, their voice raspy and deep because of their Ultimate. The sound of it electrifies Elliott’s insides in an instant, and he has to fight every weakness he’s got as his knees turn to jelly. 

He rounds the corner and ducks into the room below the tower, fidgeting with his Wingman. Gibraltar jogs in with them, his Prowler smoking slightly. “Downed another one, but I think they had a gold knockdown. They’re probably up and running again.”

“It is no matter,” Bloodhound replies, and Elliott is sad to hear their Ultimate fading away. “We have the means to _vinna_.” They kneel on the ground quickly, regaining their balance from the rush. He places a hand on their shoulder.

“You all right?” he asks them. 

Bloodhound stiffens, almost shying away from his touch. “Yes. Do not forget to recharge your shields. We have need of your skill.”

A weird sense of awkwardness sparkles in his ribcage, and he retracts his hand. “Oh, right.” He takes a moment to swing his backpack from his shoulders and to his feet. The familiar hiss and sting of the shield battery jolts through his veins, and soon enough he is fully charged again. “How many are left? Six?

“Four,” Bloodhound pants. “I killed two opponents before assisting you, so there should be four remaining, assuming the one with the gold shield evaded death. Who was it?”

“Don’t know,” Gibraltar says, popping a shield cell. “Didn’t get a good look at them. Might’ve been Dr. Nox.”

Bloodhound nods, and reloads their Spitfire. Gunfire echoes around them again, too close for comfort. Mirage darts to the other doorway and peeks out. Sure enough, the remaining squads are battling it out by the respawn beacon. Revenant and Lifeline are shooting at Wraith and Wattson from the hill, pinning the two women between them and Elliott’s squad. A blue-black void portal is hidden expertly among the rocks, no doubt leading to a safer location. 

“It’s a two on two out there,” Elliott yells back to his team. “Lifeline and Murderbot against Wraith and Wattson. I don’t know what happened to their thirds, so keep an eye out.”

“I’ve got an idea,” Gibraltar says. “Wraith will be able to tell if we’re aiming at her, thanks to those voices of hers. Bloodhound, how about you take her portal while they’re distracted and wait for them to come through? Give us scans when you’re charged up. Mirage, you send a few decoys out as you get them. I’ll circle around to the side and try to gain ground on the two up the hill.”

“Hey, sounds good,” Mirage replies, just as Bloodhound nods their agreement. “Almost as good as my plan, but you know, you’ll get there!”

Gibraltar just shakes his head at him in amused exasperation. “You keep telling yourself that. You two ready?”

Mirage grabs an arc star from his bag. “Ready.”

“Ready.” Bloodhound’s voice is smooth and even, free from the heavy breathing from before. 

“Go!”

Elliott runs through the door with no hesitation, sending a decoy in the direction of the gunfire. He lobs the arc star high and far, hoping to land it right between the squads. Bloodhound is close behind him, and they run straight to Wraith’s portal. Gibraltar jogs up the hill, pulling out his G7. Bloodhound disappears into Wraith’s portal in a flash of white light, and Elliott starts firing at Wattson with his R-99. About half of the bullets miss, whizzing over Wattson’s head when she ducks. Wraith disappears from his peripheral, slipping into the void. Elliott can only hope she’s gone after Gibraltar and isn’t sneaking around behind him.

Bloodhound suddenly cries out in pain over the comms, and Elliott’s heart twists itself into knots. 

“What’s wrong?” he yells, his fingers fumbling as he ducks and reloads his R-99.

The hunter reappears beside him, heaving and groaning in pain. “Do not go through the portal!” they gasp. “Wraith left the other end outside the ring!” Bloodhound runs off to take cover, pulling a med kit from their backpack as they go. 

Wattson fires her Flatline straight at Elliott’s head, and a dangerous amount of bullets make contact. His shields instantly vaporize, and his helmet is barely holding on. He knows it's now or never, so he takes a deep breath and fires his R-99 at her. His friend hits the ground almost instantly, and Elliott feels a twinge of sorrow. Wattson was one of his favorite Legends to be around, and he always felt this weird sense of guilt when he beat her in the Games, even though they’re here to repeatedly kill each other. “Sorry, Nat!”

“It- It’s fine,” she groans weakly, pressing a hand to her neck as the blood gushes from between her fingertips. “I’ll get you next time!”

He lingers for a moment, not really wanting to finish her off, but more bullets fly in his direction. He doesn’t really have a choice, so he fires a few more bullets at her, and her body goes limp. 

A large, orange, sparkling _something_ hits Elliott squarely in the chest, and he realizes too late that Revenant has hit him with his silencer. “Shit, shit, shit!” he mutters, diving out of the way. He ducks behind a pillar and pulls out a shield battery, willing it to charge faster. Bullets smack into the ground near his feet, and he scoots away from them. 

“Wraith is down!” Gibraltar yells over the comms. 

“Wattson’s out too,” Mirage replies, breathing hard. “It should just be Revenant and Lifeline, right?” Fully healed, he discards the battery and peeks precariously around the pillar. 

A web of orangey-red energy sweeps the area, highlighting three enemy figures.

To his horror, a shadowy Revenant, Lifeline, and Caustic are running down the hill at full-tilt. Caustic raises an arm back, holding a large, cylindrical object in his hand, and Elliott is familiar with the sight. Still silenced, he can’t do much else besides run, so he darts away from the respawn beacon structure and back towards the imposing ring. It has closed just shy of the space under the tower, so he throws himself back in and waits for his abilities to return. “Bloodhound, where are you?”

Just as the words leave his mouth, Caustic rushes around the corner, still holding the canister in his hands. Elliott immediately sends a decoy in his direction, but he is not fooled- he steps aside and throws the canister right at Elliott’s feet. Caustic fires a round of ammo from his Havoc right into Elliott’s chest. Elliott throws himself backwards, but his right elbow smashes against the doorframe, and he feels it fracture. Mirage falls through the doorway just as clouds of green gas spew straight at his face. 

“ _Fuck_ , shit-” he gasps, breathing in gas and crawling frantically away. He was so close to death, and his blood is pumping white-hot terror through his veins. Pain funnels into his lungs and into his entire body, radiating from his arm. 

“Failure after failure,” Caustic seethes through the mask, slamming his foot on Mirage’s chest just as the effects of Revenant’s totem leave him. He reloads his Peacekeeper and presses the muzzle into Elliott’s forehead. 

_Same damn place I was just a few days ago_ , Elliott thinks, his chest seizing in agony. _All this fighting, and for what?_ He grabs around frantically, trying to find something, _anything_ to help him out.

His left hand brushes across the handle of his Wingman.

Three ear-splitting shots ring out, and Caustic crashes to the ground, three bullet holes in his forehead. 

Elliott scrambles to his feet and instantly falls right back over, hacking his lungs out. He roots through his backpack in a panic, trying to find a med kit and a shield battery. To his dismay, he only finds two syringes and a shield cell. 

“Caustic’s down! Hey, I could use some shields here!” he coughs, leaning against the wall and taking the syringes. He feels his arm heat up uncomfortably, and the fracture heals itself, but still aches.

“Give me a sec!” Gibraltar yells. “Lifeline’s low, but so am I!”

“Revenant has downed me,” Bloodhound calls, their voice thick with what Elliott can only assume to be blood. 

_This is bad,_ Elliott thinks as he pops a shield cell. His chest is tight with pain and fear, and all he wants to do is scramble to his feet and find Bloodhound. Gibraltar sprints around the glacier, throws down his dome, and drops a shield battery, which Elliott scoops up and uses as fast as he physically can. “Bloodhound, where are you?”

“Near the respawn beacon!”

“Shit,” he hisses. Bloodhound had to be right between them and Revenant, and Revenant had to be coming for them. “Gibraltar, did you finish Lifeline off?” 

“Yup,” he says, reloading his Prowler. “Anyone got some heavy ammo?”

But his words fall on deaf ears, because Elliott takes off towards Bloodhound’s indicator.

Another fiery orange projectile hits Elliott squarely in the chest, and he yells in frustration. “Hold on, Bloodhound, I’m coming for you!”

“ _No,_ Elliott, finish the match!” they yell weakly. “Leave me!”

“But-”

“Go!” 

“ _No_ !” Elliott protests. “I’m not leaving you behind, so _shut up!_ ” He slides across the ground to Bloodhound’s shaking form and plunges the revival syringe straight into their chest. They gasp hard, and their body convulses for a brief moment. “Come on, stay with me,” he murmurs. His hand goes to theirs and hovers over it for just a moment, but he thinks better of it. _Now’s not the time_.

A fiery orange projectile hits the ground only a few feet away from them, just as Elliott is pulling Bloodhound to their feet. “You good?” he asks them.

“Yes. Now _go!_ ”

Elliott pops to his feet and grabs a stray syringe from the ground, plunging it into his wrist as he runs. His Wingman is almost out of ammo, and he only has a couple clips of his R-99 left. “Gibraltar, you good?”

“Right behind you!” he replies. “But I’m low on health!”

Revenant’s skeletal form comes into view once more as Elliott runs up the hill towards Refinery. He’s kneeling over Lifeline’s body, attempting to revive her. 

Elliott fires the last two Wingman shots he has at Revenant, but to his dismay, only one of them connects. It collides with his shoulder, and he jumps to his feet, leaving Lifeline behind. _Good,_ Elliott thinks. _Now she can’t back him up._ He switches to his R-99 and sprints harder, trying to catch up with him.

Elliott rounds the corner and promptly ducks as he sees another of Revenant’s silencers flying towards his head. He shoots another decoy forward, trying to give Revenant something else to focus on. Gibraltar gets hit with the silencer and grunts in frustration. Elliott pursues Revenant relentlessly, determined to get revenge on the bastard. 

Finally the robot comes into view, and Elliott raises his gun at him. Most of the mag hits his target, and Revenant _has_ to be close to dead. 

“Mirage!” Gibby yells. “Get behind me!”

“Wh-”

“Just do it!”

Elliott shakes his head in disbelief but he does as Gibraltar says. “I don’t know what you’re planning but I hope it’s good.”

“Trust me,” Gibraltar says, raising what’s left of his gun shield. Elliott reloads his R-99, and in front of them, Revenant fires back with a few well-placed Eva-8 shots, obliterating Gibraltar’s gun shield. Gibby falls to the ground, his arm and gut bleeding profusely.

“Dude, what the _hell_ -”

“Just finish him!” Gibraltar coughs, blood spattering onto the ice. 

Elliott looks up in alarm. Revenant is almost upon him, and he’s leveling his R-301. The too-familiar panic settles in, but Elliott takes a deep breath, allowing it to remain inside him.

Everything goes quiet and still. 

His R-99 moves seemingly of its own accord, locking onto Revenant’s head with ease. His fingers pull the trigger, and the stream of bullets shoots out like a laser, deadly accurate. Every single bullet connects to its target. Revenant is knocked backward by the force of it all, and he slumps to the ground, dead. 

The R-99 falls out of Elliott’s hands. 

His eyes sting and his knees give out.

“ _Attention. Winner decided._ ”


	9. scars we cover up with paint

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all of your kinds words! I'm so grateful for each and every one of you. Thank you for following along!
> 
> Thank you for your patience on this chapter. It took a long time to get right, and I wanted to do it justice. I have this idea that some of the Legends have apartments on both Solace and Talos when they go back and forth for matches, since we don't know how long the travel is between planets and all that jazz. I feel like Bloodhound has been in the Games long enough to be able to afford both. Just a little logistical note before we begin.

The first thing they’re aware of once the gunfire stops is Elliott running towards them, and they don’t quite register what he’s doing until he’s already done it. 

Elliott is hugging them fiercely, whooping and hollering and jumping up and down, and they stand in his embrace as stiff as a board. He picks them up and spins them around, laughing joyfully. They’re delighted to have won, of course, but they didn’t expect Elliott’s reaction in the slightest. His warmth, his smell, his softness- all of it engulfs them in one singular moment, and their cheeks burn harder than they have in years. The victory music blares over the loudspeakers, and the surge of pride they had felt blazes in their chest between the two of them. Just before they melt into his touch, he stiffens, puts them down, and jerks away.

“Uh… s-sorry,” he stammers, his eyes wide as he backs up. 

They stare at him, at a complete loss for words. Nothing in Bloodhound’s brain is working properly- their thoughts are just one big blank, and it scares them.

_Wh-_

Gibraltar claps Elliott on the shoulder, laughing that big, booming laugh of his. “Well, would you look at that!” he says, grinning. A relieved whoosh of air leaves Bloodhound’s lungs. “Witt clutches the win! Great job, bruddah. I knew you could do it.”

He shakes himself a little, and turns away from them. “Thanks! Couldn’t have done it without you guys. Or maybe I could’ve. Who knows?” He shrugs and flips his hair a little. The arrogant facade is back, and it makes a twinge of sadness poke at Bloodhound’s heart. 

“Well done, _félagi,_ ” they say as they cross their arms. “ _Ég er stoltur af þér._ ”

“Are you ever going to tell me what that means?” he quips, smiling and rolling his eyes.

Bloodhound laughs, just a little. “I am proud of you.”

The grin that splits his face is enough to warm their chest for the rest of the day.

* * *

The lights in the Paradise Lounge are dim, and it’s very close to closing time. Bloodhound stands in the doorway, peeking inside from the shadows. Only a few people linger in the bar. Makoa and Ajay are among them, laughing and finishing off their drinks. Elliott is with them, leaning against the bar and sipping at a drink of his own. Bloodhound smiles at the sight. They are grateful that their fellow Legends are (mostly) friendly with one another; the idea of a hostile environment outside of the ring is not particularly enjoyable. 

They linger at the doorstep for another moment, debating on whether or not to go in. _This is ridiculous,_ they think. _You never show up to post-match celebrations. Why now?_ But a part of them knows the answer. And another part of them wishes they didn’t.

They shake themself internally. _There is no use,_ they think. They turn to leave. There is no point in staying, no point in mingling with people they rarely speak to, and no point in being here if they couldn’t be alone with-

“Bloodhound?”

Elliott’s voice echoes from behind them, and the residual joy from his win today is evident in his voice. They turn back, and their heart stutters in their chest when their eyes lock on his. The light from the bulbs at the bar paint his face in shades of warm gold and yellow, running fingers of light through his dark hair. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and the top two buttons of his purple button-down are open, giving them an unobstructed view of the top of his chest.  
  
They’re suddenly very glad they need a mask to breathe.

“Good evening, Elliott,” they reply, after a horrifyingly long moment. “Hello, Makoa, Ajay.” They incline their head to each of them in turn as they approach the bar. 

“Hey, cousin.” Makoa raises his glass to them and smiles widely, nodding.

“‘Sup, BH?” Ajay quips, tossing up a peace sign. “Don’t see yuh here very often. What are yuh up to?”

“Uh, yeah,” Elliott butts in, setting down his glass. “What’s up?”

It strikes Bloodhound that they have absolutely no idea how to respond to that.

“Come on, bruddah, they’re here to celebrate!” Makoa says, raising his bottle and draining it. Bloodhound is beyond grateful for him for the second time today. “And who wouldn’t, with a win like ours? Elliott, my man, that smoke screen idea was fantastic.”

Elliott bows dramatically, flourishing his hand as he goes. “Thank you, thank you,” he says, adopting a grandiose tone that makes Bloodhound roll their eyes. “It was one of my finer ideas, I must admit.”

“All of yuh were on fire today,” Ajay admits, shaking her head. ‘Specially you, Hound. Damn scary when yuh come at everyone while you’re glowin’ like that.”

A twinge of annoyance crosses their chest as it always does whenever someone doesn’t use their full name, but they let it pass. “You fought well, _felagi,_ ” they reply. “You managed to evade me, and few are able to do so. I commend you for your efforts.” For the first time they are self-conscious of how stilted and formal they sound, but they don’t know what to do to change that. They look to Elliott and Makoa. “But we still came out victorious in the end, did we not?”

“Hell yeah, we did!” Elliott cheers, smiling widely at them. He raises his glass to try and clink it with theirs, but he seems to realize that he did not offer them one. His eyes go wide for a fraction of a second and red flushes his cheeks. “Uh, you wouldn’t happen to want a drink, would you?” He looks extremely unsure of his offer, and he sets his cup back down on the counter, looking sheepish as he grabs an extra one.

“No, thank you,” Bloodhound replies. “I do not drink.”

“Didn’t think so,” Elliott says quickly, and the cup is gone in an instant. 

“I appreciate the gesture.” Bloodhound takes a seat at the bar to Ajay’s left and tries their best to settle in amongst all their gear. It proves to be a little difficult- the bar stool is small and their uniform is awkward. Part of them wishes they had just left their extra gear back at their apartment, but they know they would have felt too exposed without it. They tune back into the conversation just as Makoa begins to laugh.

“--and then I told him, ‘bruddah, it’s gonna take a lot more than that to knock me down!’” He laughs uproariously, and Elliott and Ajay join him, nearly doubling over from their mirth. Bloodhound finds themself staring at Elliott- listening to his amusing laugh, admiring the curve of his smile, enjoying the contour of his jawline amidst his beard. They gaze at him unabashedly under the mask, wondering what it would be like to-

They catch themself. 

_None of that_ , they berate themself. _Elliott is a friend. Nothing more._

Their chest aches a little at the thought, but Bloodhound staunchly pushes it away. 

* * *

The night winds down, and Ajay and Makoa soon decide to leave, leaving Bloodhound and Elliott alone in the bar. The three of them were excellent company, and had managed to make Bloodhound laugh a few times. That had surprised Bloodhound; they hadn’t expected to have such a good time. Part of them wondered if it would last, if it was worth it to keep coming back. That was yet to be determined.

Elliott picks up the glasses and begins to clean them. “So, have a good time?” he asks nonchalantly. 

“Surprisingly, yes,” they answer, popping their fingers. The social interaction had nearly wiped them out, and they’re nearly ready to retreat back to their small apartment to sleep. They’re looking forward to their day off before the match on King’s Canyon. Strangely enough, coming back to Solace for the Games always felt like coming home. 

“‘Surprisingly’?” Elliott says, a laugh pressing at his voice. “What do you mean? C’mon, Bloodhound, can you really resist Makoa’s laugh? Or Ajay’s jokes? Or my unrelenting charm?” He winks at them, biting his lip a little, and there’s a strange fluttering sensation in their stomach. 

“What charm?” they deadpan. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

Elliott places a hand on his chest, feigning hurt. “You mean you don’t see all of this glorious Witt wit? I’m wounded, Bloodhound, I really am.” He sniffs greatly and pretends to wipe away a tear. 

Bloodhound laughs, and their chest hurts a little. “‘Witt wit’?” they ask, incredulous as they shake their head. “That is your worst joke all evening. Including the one about the Gaean golfer.”

Elliott laughs too, throwing his head back in mirth. Bloodhound loves the sound of it. It’s embarrassingly heavy and goofy, but so… Elliott. “Oh man, that golfer joke gets people every time,” he says, patting his chest absentmindedly. He sighs, a smile still resting on his face. “It’s just classic.” 

Bloodhound shakes their head again, smiling under the mask. It strikes them how effortless this feels. They didn’t like talking to others for long, but Elliott... Elliott is different.

And that confuses the hell out of them. 

“Thank you for your company, Elliott,” they say. “I quite enjoyed the evening.” 

“It was good to see you,” he replies as he finishes cleaning the glasses. “Why don’t you come around more often? I would- I mean, _we_ \- would love to see more of you.” Elliott’s cheeks flush a little, which Bloodhound notices.

“I… will consider it,” they answer carefully. They truly had a great time, but… a small part of them nags at their brain, kicking up a stir and whispering, _You do not belong here. You do not deserve this._ It kicks at their heart, forcing it back into the box where it belongs. Their feet shift to get up from the stool, but their body does not follow. 

“Fair enough,” Elliott says. He seems to think for a moment, and then asks, “Hey, can I ask you a question?”

Bloodhound considers this. “Yes. But know that I may not give you a straight answer.”

“Oh, believe me, I know,” he laughs. Then, he sobers up and looks a little unsure of himself. “I noticed you when we were on the Epicenter tower earlier. You had a little case and it looked like you were meditating or something. What were you doing?”

The question catches them somewhat off guard. They didn’t expect him to be quite so bold in asking, though they can’t really blame him. Maybe it’s the lateness of the hour, or maybe it’s because of the happiness they’ve felt, but they answer him honestly. “I was offering a prayer to the gods,” they say.

“What about?” he asks. “For the match?” Part of them is a little bothered at his nosiness, but they know it’s because of the whiskey he’s had. He’s not drunk, but he has had enough to loosen his tongue a little. 

“Yes, and no,” they reply. A familiar sense of grief floods their chest, and they allow it to visit and poke around a little. The words are spilling from their mouth before they realize what they’re saying, their tongue loosened by the pain and the growing trust they have in him. “I asked the Allfather to strengthen us and lead us to victory.” They swallow, suddenly feeling like a deer in the headlights. “I also... asked him to keep my mother and father’s spirits at rest.”

Elliott raises his eyebrows, and his mouth opens a little. “Oh,” he says. “Um… what happened to them?”

They hesitate. 

“Do you know the history behind World’s Edge?” they ask quietly. That nagging part of them starts to scream and thrash, but they seize it and stuff it away. 

“Not really,” he says, rubbing his neck. “All I know is that there was a huge meltdown at an IMC facility like, thirty years ago or something, and that’s what caused all the ice around Epicenter. Why?” 

Bloodhound sighs, and their heart feels raw and tender as it emerges from the box they had so carefully squeezed it into. 

_The snow beneath their feet crunches as they approach the tower. It looms above them, taunting them, digging its claws into their soul and ripping away the layers and layers of protection they had so meticulously constructed. The mountains of ice around them seem to collapse over them, trapping them inside and suffocating them. Their eyes sting and burn, their legs shake, and sweat runs down their back in waves. Bloodhound knows that somewhere, deep below the remnants of this facility, the corpses of their mother and father have solidified into ice._

_Ajay stops next to them, staring at them for a moment. “Yuh all right, BH?”_

_They cannot answer; their throat is clamped shut with freezing irons, and their jaw will not open. Their goggles are fogging up, and their vision is blurry. Their breaths come in quick, half-gasps, and their hands tremble._

_“Bloodhound?” Anita’s voice is firm, but warm. The two women look at them, concerned._

_“I…” they manage. “I am fine. Please continue on. I will loot here.”_

_“Yuh know that’s bullshit,” Ajay replies steadily. “Come on, what’s up?”_

_“I told you I am fine. Please do not worry.”_

_Ajay rolls her eyes. “Fine, but don’t come cryin’ to me later when you need a rez.” She turns and begins to make her way down the hill._

_Anita stares at them sternly, but not devoid of concern, and asks, “You gonna be good for combat?”_

_Bloodhound clenches their fists to stop them from shaking. “Yes.”_

They slowly pull out the silver case from an inside pocket of their jacket and open it. Their parents stare up at them, smiling happily. Their father’s youthful optimism and spark shine through the photo, and he cradles their mother lovingly. Their mother was so beautiful. Her ginger hair matches their own, and she holds an infant Bloodhound in her arms. Opposite the pair of them, their uncle Artur sits stiffly for his picture, blushing a little in discomfort. His bushy red beard covers his mouth completely, but Bloodhound knows he’s smiling anyway.

They stare at the pictures, willing the ache in their body to subside. “My mother and father were brilliant scientists,” they say. They slide the case over to Elliott, their heart pounding in their chest harder than it ever has before. “The IMC recruited them for their research on energy harvesting. They brought me to Talos when I was very young, and they began to build a life for us.” Their voice tightens fractionally, and they force their throat to relax, because there is no way in Hel they are going to cry in front of him right now.

“The IMC meddled with concepts and forces they did not understand, and my parents suffered because of it.” They did not meet Elliott’s eyes. “When the facility exploded, it caused a meltdown, and my parents were caught in it. They are still there, somewhere. Under the ice. They would not allow us to retrieve the bodies.”

Elliott is silent for a few agonizing moments. “Y-Your parents…” he starts, his voice shocked. “Your parents are… _under_ Epicenter?”

“Yes.”

“And you have to walk over their corpses every time you’re there?” Bloodhound hears him pick up the case, and he takes a few moments to examine it. “Oh, my God. I don’t know what to say.” They hear him swallow thickly, and his voice is quiet and reverent the next time he speaks. “I’m… I’m so sorry.”  
  
“Do not be,” Bloodhound sighs. “It was many years ago.” The last thing they want or need is for Elliott to pity them. While traversing World’s Edge had severely jarred them at first, they had managed to somewhat make peace with their horrifying obligation to walk over their parents’ graves. They did not need anyone else to feel their emotions for them. Especially Elliott.

“How the hell do you deal with that?” Elliott asks, his voice hushed. “I mean, I have no idea what I would do.”

“It was… difficult at first,” they admit reluctantly. They look over to him, and their heart stops in their chest. He’s examining the pictures inside it with a fascinated horror, his mouth open, his eyes wide. It’s as though he’s in a trance. 

They swallow hard and continue speaking. “It is still difficult, if I must be honest. That is why I ask the gods for strength every time I am there.”

Elliott is quiet for a long time as he stares at the case, and Bloodhound begins to worry that they have said too much, dumped too much on his head. They start to push their heart back into the box they had constructed, and the nagging voice comes back- _stupid, stupid, STUPID-_

“You’re incredible,” he murmurs, and the kindness and awe in his voice makes their head snap up to meet his gaze. 

Elliott stares at them with open admiration and reverence. The honesty of it makes them want to hide away, because they certainly do not deserve these words.

“I told you before, I am human, like you.” Their voice comes out far more irritated than they intended, and they wince. “I appreciate your compliment, but please know I am not anything special.”

“Oh, come on,” Elliott says, his eyebrows raised in disbelief. “That’s absolute bullshit. You’re special. You kick ass, you’re powerful, you carry my sorry ass through basically every match we’re teamed up in-”

“That is not true, Elliott,” they interrupt, the annoyance building more now. “You held your own today, and I was very proud of you. I _am_ very proud of you.” 

He shakes his head, visibly biting back a smile. “Okay, fine, I did all right in today’s game. But that doesn’t change the fact that you’re one of the most valuable assets to any team.”

It’s Bloodhound’s turn to shake their head. “I simply do what the Allfather asks of me, nothing more. The outcome of any match is written before we even step into the arena, and there is no changing that.”

“You seriously believe that?” Elliott asks. “You seriously think that our fates are set in stone and we can’t do a damn thing to change them?” The frustration of the other night is returning, and Bloodhound hates that they are the cause of it. 

“Yes, Elliott,” they fire back, feeling exhausted and exasperated. “I do. You do not have to agree, but that is the principle on which I have fashioned my entire life. Please do not disrespect that.”

He sighs, waving his hands in a placating gesture. “All right, sorry, sorry. All I’m saying is, maybe you should have a little faith in yourself every once in a while. I’m sure your gods are fa- fast- _great_ , but so are you.” He leans on the counter across from them, his hands coming to rest on the lacquered wood. 

“You know not of what you speak,” they murmur quietly. Under any other circumstance, they would be angry, but they cannot summon up the energy. “I am not _hrokafullur_ \- arrogant- enough to think that I will succeed alone.” Their heart aches, and their chest feels like it’s being crushed with frustration and grief. They’ve done so well in managing their emotions up until now, but talking about their parents has put them in a place they have done their best to avoid for a very long time. Why him? Why Elliott? Why do they feel like he can be trusted, despite everything they have buried? Despite everything they have done?

“I’m not saying you need to do anything alone, Bloodhound,” Elliott replies, his voice patient. “I’m just saying you need to give yourself more credit. You’re seriously the greatest warrior I’ve ever met.” He looks at them, and Bloodhound can see the expectation on his face. But there’s something else there, too- a boldness that Bloodhound has come to miss from him. They stare directly into his beautiful brown eyes, not breaking eye contact. For the first time, the simple act of looking at him makes their face heat up, and if it wasn’t for the mask, they would have looked away a long time ago. They notice that his hands are very, very close to theirs, and the desire to reach out and touch him is far more intense than they bargained for. 

Bloodhound finally sighs and looks down. “I am sorry, _vinur minn._ Thank you, but I cannot agree.” Their voice is barely above a whisper, and it takes a great amount of effort to make anything audible. “Maybe one day, but…”

They suddenly feel pressure against their hands, and they look over to them quickly. Elliott’s hands are trembling, and his knuckles are pressing against their gloved fingers with hesitation. They inhale sharply, flinching, but a part of Bloodhound forces their body to relax, to welcome his touch, even though the other part is screaming at them to run away. Time stretches out like molasses, and Bloodhound reaches further across the bar. That nagging part of them begs them to stop, but they shove it away angrily. The instant their hands make contact with his, their heart stills, and it’s only then that they realize it’s been pounding and roaring in their ears. They do not dare look into his eyes, because they don’t want to see pity or admiration or anything else he has for them. They don’t want his kindness. 

_Yes, you do_ , they think. _You want it so badly you think your soul is going to burst. You are pathetic, craving affection and acceptance from those who it is most unattainable from. You really think Mirage can save you? You really think Elliott Witt, heartthrob of the Outlands, will listen to your woes? You are a naive child, and nothing has changed. You are the same person you were all those years ago when Boone-_

“Hey, um…” Elliott’s voice startles them out of their thoughts, and they meet his eyes. There is no pity there, only patience and a determined concern. “I… I know we don’t know each other very well, but… If you ever need to talk about anything or whatever, I’ve got ears.” His cheeks redden, and he begins to babble, letting go of Bloodhound’s hands to gesticulate wildly. “I mean, I’m all yours- I’ve got ea- _ugh,_ I’ve got you and I’m all ears.” He stares intently at the wood of the bar, blushing a bright red as he crosses his arms and hides his face in his hand.

Something inside Bloodhound fills them with a strange kind of static. It feels warm and alarming all at once. It pools in their stomach, swirling around with a pleasant feeling, and all they can do for a moment is stare and blush furiously. Their heart starts pounding in their ears again. They’re surprised by his words. For so long, they have been the one to reassure and uplift others. And now, someone is reciprocating? Someone cares? _Elliott cares?_

The feeling inside them multiples and a soft peace quiets the annoyances that have plagued them all evening. “That is… very much appreciated, Elliott.” Their throat is tight, and they have to fight to keep their voice steady. 

“Hey, no problem,” he shrugs. “It’s the least I can do after everything you’ve done for me. My advice might not be great, but I can try.” 

“The effort is appreciated,” they murmur. They want to take his hands again. They want to feel his skin on theirs again. They want to know what it would feel like to be held in his arms and kept safe. They want to-

“Oh, hey, here’s this.” Elliott offers the case back to them, and they shake themself out of their thoughts as their cheeks burn. 

“Thank you.” They take it from him and tuck it back into their jacket pocket.

“Who’s the other guy? The one with the awesome beard?” Elliott strokes his own face as he says this, brushing his fingers through his already-perfect facial hair.

Bloodhound smiles. “That is my uncle, Artur.” They look into his face, taking advantage of the mask so they can stare at his gorgeous features unabashedly. 

“Is he… you know… still around?” he asks, hesitation written all over him.

A deep feeling in their chest twists around painfully, and their scars seem to burn. Their lungs ache and clench, and the air seems to leak out of them at an agonizing pace. Bloodhound’s heart begins to pound again, and blood rushes through their veins. “No, he is not,” they reply, trying to calm themself down. _Breathe in. One, two, three, four-_

“I’m sorry.” Elliott is silent for a moment. “What happened to him?”

It’s an innocent enough question, but it makes adrenaline shoot through Bloodhound’s veins like Octane’s stim. A horrible buzzing sound fills their ears, and their mouth runs dry. Their palms begin to sweat, making their gloves feel too tight around their hands. Dread fills their stomach and seizes their lungs, making it nearly impossible to breathe. What breath they do manage to take in is choppy, uneven. That awful nagging voice is back, screeching into their ears- _your fault, your fault, your fault-_

“Th-that is a story for another time,” they manage, and they get up from the bar, their limbs shaking.

“Hey, wait, are you okay?” Elliott asks, and there’s concern all over his face. He reaches out over the bar and tries to steady them, but they’re already moving towards the door. “Bloodhound! Wait!” 

“Please, Elliott, I am fine,” they choke, their vision beginning to blur. “I will see you in the match.” 

“Bloodhound, come back-”

But they’re already out the door and swiftly striding down the street towards their apartment, leaving Elliott and his reaching heart behind.

* * *

When they make it back to their tiny apartment on the third floor, they slam the door behind them and rush to the bathroom. They pull off the gloves, helmet, goggles, and mask and set them on the counter. Shuddering gasps hiss through their teeth as they turn on the tap and plunge their hands beneath the icy water. They pull the stopper in the sink and let the liquid pool until it’s deep enough to plunge their face into. Bloodhound leans over the counter, takes a deep breath, and presses their head into the water, keeping it there as long as they can stand it.

They gasp, stumbling backwards from the sink until their back makes contact with the door. Water runs down their face in rivulets, soaking their jacket and hair. They breathe heavily for a few moments, and they meet their own gaze in the mirror. Their scarred skin is red from shock, and their hair sticks to itself, drenched. For one eternal second, everything is fine. 

But the moment passes, and they sink to their knees, burying their face in their hands as sobs begin to burst from their mouth.


	10. feet won't fail you now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for being so patient, you guys! I ended up being really busy around the holidays, plus my anxiety has been really bad lately. I appreciate your support and comments more than you know!

Elliott lands hard, the impact sending shockwaves through his feet and legs. His heart immediately starts to pound- three sets of footsteps echo around him and he dives into the nearest building. He scoops up a Prowler, inserts a nearby HCOG scope, and just as he’s finishing up, the door in front of him flies open.

He breathes, steadying his aim, and pulls the trigger five times, sending an entire clip directly into a Legend hopeful’s head. The poor man’s face turns white and he immediately drops to the ground. Mirage lets out a whoosh of breath, and finishes him off. He’s got two heavy ammo boxes and a level one backpack, which he quickly takes. Another set of footsteps quickly approaches, and Mirage reloads the Prowler. 

The other door bangs open, and just as Mirage turns around, Revenant fires an Eva-8 right at him. Two rounds of double-fire pellets rip into Elliott’s chest and neck, and to his horror, he falls to the ground, bleeding and gasping. _Shit! No! It can’t end like this!_

“Hey, uh, need help,” he gags into his earpiece, blood pouring from his mouth. Revenant picks up a crate of shotgun ammo and leaves, reloading his Eva-8 as he goes.

“Damn, Witt, lose that winning energy so quick?” Octane teases over the comms, and Elliott can hear more gunfire in the background. 

“Oh, you know,” he chokes, “it’s kind of hard to win when you immediately get downed by a goddamn _murderbot_!” His hands are slick with red and he’s fading fast, and he wants to throw up.

A giant smoke grenade comes careening through the door, and Elliott’s vision is immediately obscured. He presses his hands to his wounds, trying desperately to keep the pressure on so he doesn’t bleed out. “Williams, coming to my rescue? You shouldn’t have,” he says, and he coughs up a glob of blood that splatters across the floor. 

“Shut up and let me focus, Witt!!” Anita’s voice is commanding and harsh over the earpiece, and it shuts Elliott right up.

Just as his vision starts to go fuzzy, he hears a percussive beat of bullets close by, and Revenant screams, his modulated voice garbled with rage. “Get back here, you coward!” Anita yells. “Damn you!”  
  
Elliott loses track of how much time passes, but just before he passes out, something sharp plunges directly into his heart. _“Fuck!”_ he yells, and his body jolts painfully, sending his arms and legs flailing. Adrenaline and heat surge through his veins, painfully clotting and repairing his wounds. A rush wallops his head and Anita drags him to his feet.

“Come on, Witt, get off your ass and give us a hand, would you?” She’s panting hard as she sticks a syringe into her wrist. Elliott grabs the wall for support as a wave of nausea flows through him, threatening to overturn his stomach.

“Yeah, yeah, thanks, Williams,” he chokes out, spitting out the last of the blood. “How many are left?”

“Two, by my count. Revenant got away, and he’s still got a teammate somewhere. Looks like you took care of their third.” She nods over at him, seemingly satisfied with his work. Anita had consistently been the toughest to crack- Elliott had not yet made her laugh to this day- so he would take what he could get.

“Yep, wasn’t a problem,” he says flippantly, shrugging as picks up a nearby shield cell. “Poor guy went down faster than- faster than… uh, poor guy went down fast.” His cheeks burn at his failed attempt at some sort of joke, and Anita’s deadpan expression tells him she’s not amused, either. 

She tosses him a Phoenix Kit, and he fumbles it a little before shoving his arm into it. “Not the time. Joke around later. He’ll be coming back for us any second now.” Her voice is short, and it stings Elliott’s ego a little. 

The Kit depletes with a hissing noise, and Elliott is good to go. He reloads his Prowler with shaking fingers. “Hey, let me get Revenant,” Elliott says, readjusting his backpack against his shoulders. “Gotta pay the son-of-a-bitch back. You go help Octane with… whatever he’s doing.”

“Sure you can handle yourself?” Anita sounds skeptical, and her eyebrows are raised as she reloads her weapons.  
  
“Me?” He forces an incredulous laugh. “Of course I can! Didn’t you see how well I kicked his ass the other day? This’ll be a walk in the park.” He hops up and down on the balls of his feet, still feeling a little faint from being brought back from the brink. 

“All right.” Anita shrugs and gives her weapon one last check, and she’s out the door before he knows it. _She probably just wants to see me get my ass handed to me,_ he thinks, but it’s not a big deal. He wants to prove her wrong.

Sure enough, the sound of robotic footsteps pounds ominously against the pavement outside. Elliott casts a decoy and stations it next to the door, hoping to buy him a few more seconds. _Shnk!_ An arc star slams into the already fragile door and begins to whine. Elliott throws himself backwards, deeper into the building, and shields his face against the explosion. The door disintegrates into bits, and the sound is deafening in his ears. An orange silencer hits the ground with a sinister _whoosh_ , and Elliott backs up more, leveling his Prowler as his decoy dissipates into the air. 

Revenant charges through the open door and through his silencer, hefting his Eva-8 once more. Elliott fires the Prowler, and the bullets smatter against the simulacrum’s shoulders, barely missing his head. Elliott curses under his breath and dodges out of the way as a volley of pellets exits Revenant’s gun. The bullets connect with his shoulder and arm and Elliott cries out in pain. He casts a decoy and sends it running right at Revenant to give himself more time to reload. Revenant grunts in frustration and nearly pulls the trigger again just as Elliott takes aim. 

A full magazine of ammo assaults Revenant’s head and chest, and he goes down immediately, his shields melting into nothingness. “Damn you, skinsuit!” Revenant screams, trying to crawl away. But it’s no use- Elliott finishes Revenant off, sending another magazine of ammo right into his metal head.

“Murderbot down!” he shouts over the comms, heaving a sigh of relief. “What’s happening out there?” He loots Revenant’s backpack and heals up while he waits for an answer.

“Two squads down!” Octane crows, sounding _extremely_ proud of himself. “You’re really missing all the fun out here, _amigo!”_

“Hey, I took care of Revenant, didn’t I?” Elliott replies indignantly as he plunges another syringe into his wrist. “You all should be thanking me.” He’s being cocky and he knows it, but it’s so much easier than admitting he fucked up in the heat of the moment.

“Sounds like you’re two for two with him, Witt,” Anita calls, breathing hard from her and Octane’s fight. “Good work. Keep it up.”

Elliott raises an eyebrow, somewhat surprised by Bangalore’s open praise. “Wow, thanks, Anita! I’m touched, really. You _do_ have a heart.”  
  
“Don’t make me regret it, kid.”

“All right, all right, fine.” He smiles and zips up his backpack, and then realizes that Bangalore really isn’t that much older than him. “Hey!”

* * *

_kzzzhhhCRACK!_

_Shit._

A Sentinel bullet just barely misses Elliott’s nose, and he dives back under the scaffolding. His heart is racing and his pulse is pounding; this match has barely given him and his team time to breathe. They’ve just finished a ridiculous fight in which four different squads had piled up on each other, and he’s absolutely covered in blood and gunpowder. The only perk of continually fighting so many people is that he and Octane and Bangalore are fully kitted with every item they could need. Bangalore is taking a Phoenix kit and Octane is still for once, just getting finished with charging his shields. The banners report that there is only one other squad besides them, and Elliott is grateful. He’s had about enough of being third partied. 

Elliott reloads his Prowler with shaking fingers and checks his Triple Take. After making sure the digital sight is correctly slotted, he takes a deep breath and aims up towards Cage. Through the sights, he can see Wattson’s fences crackling around each of the entrances to the upper part of the tower. Caustic’s intimidating form glows red for a moment and then disappears behind the railings. _Dammit,_ Elliott thinks. Wattson’s fences plus Caustic’s gas make for a deadly combination, and an annoying one at that. The only thing that made that duo worse was Bloodhound being on their team, and if that charged Sentinel shot was any indication, Elliott and his team had a minuscule chance of winning if they rushed the tower. 

“What’s up there, _amigo_?” Octane asks, clearly ready to go. He’s literally vibrating with anticipation, and he makes Elliott exhausted just by looking at him. 

“Caustic, Natalie, and Bloodhound,” he sighs, and ducks back into cover. “They’re set up in there like a goddamn fort. Gonna be impossible to charge up in there.” He wipes sweat from his forehead and leans back against one of the posts.

“Well, where’s the next Ring at?” Bangalore questions, pulling out her holomap. She pinches her fingers and zooms in on their location, squinting hard. “Damn,” she swears, and dread fills Elliott’s chest. “The top of Cage is just barely inside the next Ring.” She snaps the map shut angrily and stuffs it back into her pockets.

Octane swears under his breath. “Looks like today’s just not our day,” he says, itching at his cap. He stands and peeks up above their hiding spot, just barely poking out of cover. _kzzzhhhCRACK!_ His body flies backwards, his helmet blinking out of existence, and he scrambles back down to them, sheepishly pulling out a shield battery.

Elliott groans, amused and frustrated. The chances of them feasibly winning this match are fading fast. There’s no way they’ll be able to get up there undetected, and the thought of fighting upwards made Elliott exhausted. He’s so tempted to just recklessly run in, but something stops him. 

_Bloodhound wouldn’t give up, and neither should you._

He sighs, knowing it’s true. Bloodhound would find any way they could to dominate the situation and reshape it to their will. He’s jealous for the millionth time, and has to remind himself that Bloodhound is human and fallible too, even if he still doesn’t really believe it.

“All right, we’ve got a couple options,” Mirage says, rubbing his chin. “Either we wait them out, or we can charge up there head on before the Ring closes. Personally, I’d vote for smoking them out, but I’m not the one with the missiles.” He inclines his head towards Bangalore.

Anita considers this, then shakes her head. “Neither of them are ideal options. Waiting them out would give us the upper hand, but we could also take them by surprise by charging them now. We’d have to take out all the traps though.” She breaks off, still thinking intensely. “But if we wait for them to charge, we’ll have to deal with Bloodhound’s Ultimate plus Caustic’s gas. The next Ring is small enough that that’ll make the battlefield hard to navigate. Plus, my smoke will be pretty much useless. Bloodhound’s Eye will make sure of that.”

Elliott has to agree with that. He’s been trying to avoid thinking about them all day, but of _course_ they're on the last enemy squad. The way they had run out of the bar the night before made him extremely concerned, and his stomach churns when he thinks of how stiff and cold they had become. Elliott doesn’t completely know what he did wrong, but he knows he must have brought up something painful for them to leave as abruptly as they had. 

But the memory of holding their hands in his makes his cheeks burn a little. He remembers how their grief had rolled off of them in waves, and how he’d felt so utterly helpless. Still, he’d felt closer to them than ever before, even though they were separated across the bar. Their openness had intimidated him a little bit- they were so naturally talented at making him feel better, and reciprocating definitely wasn’t his forte. But most of all, he had been stunned to the core by what he had told them. He would never be able to look at Epicenter the same way again.

“Witt!” Anita barks, and the way she says it tells Elliott that it’s definitely not the first time she has called to him.

“Sorry, what?”

“Ring’s closing in 30,” she warns. “We’re charging up the tower. How many times do I have to tell you to get your head out of your ass?”

“At least a few times more,” he fires back, rolling his eyes. He’s frustrated, but mostly at himself for getting distracted. “Sorry. I’m good to go.”

Anita does not look convinced, but she just sighs and turns back to her map. “All right. I’ll call in my missiles. Ring should be small enough to cover the whole area. Silva, try to get behind them. Witt, you throw us some clones whenever you’ve got them. I’ll toss in some smoke to keep them blinded. We’ve all got at least one digital scope, so that should give us an edge once we get up top.” 

“Sounds good, _amiga_ ,” Octane agrees. “They won’t know what hit them!” He’s fidgeting with his butterfly knife, and Elliott is one hundred percent positive that Ajay is going to have to deal with his sliced fingers sooner or later.

Elliott nods as he flips on the full-auto mode on his Prowler. His limbs are aching and he’s drenched in sweat, but he’s determined to see this through. Anita’s plan is pretty solid, and he’s got few qualms with it. Her expertise on the battlefield is something he’s always been grateful for. Careful planning and meticulous strategy were certainly her strengths, and she regularly put his on-the-fly ideas to shame. 

She checks over her weapons and then pulls out her Ultimate grenade, just as a warning horn blares over the loudspeakers. “Let’s give them a show.”

The Ring moves swiftly, advancing across the plains of green grass with an ominous humming noise. Elliott only has a few seconds, but he peeks back through his sniper sights to see what’s happening in the tower. Bloodhound is still crouched next to the steel fences, and he’s sure they have an easy shot on him. But they don’t fire. They look away from their sights and shrug at him, as if to say, _Show me what you are made of._ _  
__  
_A peculiar heat drops into his stomach.

He looks back through the sights for a split second, but his heart drops into his gut when he realizes they had forgotten something _absolutely_ essential.  
  
“Anita, wait! Wattson’s py-”

But it’s too late- Bangalore cocks her arm back and lobs the canister forwards, a shower of red sparks whizzing through the air. Missiles crash into the ground, and Elliott groans out loud. “Shit,” he hisses, punching the ground next to him. As the missiles advance forward, brilliant sparks of blue arc out into the sky over a limited radius, zapping the rockets away like they’re nothing more than flies. 

Bangalore groans, immediately popping to her feet. “Come on, we’ve got to go!” She takes off running towards Cage, just barely ahead of the rockets as they begin to detonate. 

The ground starts to heave beneath his feet, and Elliott stumbles as he starts to run. Bangalore is much more accustomed to sprinting across the roiling earth, and she does so with ease and grace. Octane weaves in and out of the explosions at an inhuman pace, pulling out his jump pad as he goes. “ _Vamonos!”_ he cries gleefully, laughing as he soars into the air.

Elliott can barely keep up, and he can feel the heat at his back as he goes. He nearly trips and falls, but recovers at the last possible second. His entire body is killing him, and he can feel sweat running down his spine as he runs. God, this whole thing is starting to feel hopeless again. He can see it now- they’ll run up to Cage and Caustic will drop gas canisters everywhere, leaving them a minefield of fumes. Wattson will fence up all the entrances and neutralize their grenades, and Bloodhound will weave across the battlefield, taking Elliott’s team out without a second thought. He figures that Bangalore and Octane can easily hold their own for at least a while, but there is no plausible victory for him today. 

He’s never felt this hopeless, this _reluctant_ to try and win a match, and it scares him a little. Elliott tries shoving the thoughts away- he doesn’t have time for his self-deprecating tendencies. But the doubt creeps into his veins and stubbornly sinks in its claws, making it really hard to think without immediately assuming the worst. He feels antsy, anxious to just get this over with and go back to his apartment above the bar to sulk for the rest of the day.

_Show me what you are made of._

He swears he hears Bloodhound’s voice in his head, and the thought suddenly bolsters his confidence tenfold. Mirage throws a decoy out through the smoke ahead of him, hoping that Bloodhound takes notice of it and not him. Shifting the Prowler in his hands, he winces as the rockets nearest to him detonate, throwing him off balance again. They’re almost to Cage, and he starts to sprint towards the stairs on his left. G7 and Triple Take shots ring out towards him, narrowly missing his running form. He makes it to the steel tunnel and scrambles inside, holding his breath as the last few rockets explode. He hears the horrible screech of shredding metal, and takes bizarre comfort in knowing that the enemy team is that much more exposed up in the tower as the doors explode. A high pitched noise plays over the speakers, and he knows that the final Ring will soon begin to close.

_I’ll show you._

“Where’s everyone at?” he hisses through the comms, his pulse roaring in his ears. He’s going to win this game if it kills him, dammit. 

“Ground floor,” Anita answers, and he hears her breathing hard. “Got hit by a couple bullets, but I’m healing up.”

“Second floor,” Octane says, not sounding tired in the slightest. “The rockets busted through a couple fences, so we’ve got an opening, but we gotta go fast.”

“Got it,” Elliott says, his mind whirring. “Williams, got any ideas?”

“Always,” she replies steadily. “Send out some decoys and try to join us down here. The zipline on the south side is still in the Ring, so we’ve got our point of entry. If we try to make it around to the other one, we’ll be toast. Only Silva has any chance of running in and out of the Ring and making it out alive.”

“Hell yeah, _chica!”_ Octane laughs, ridiculously upbeat and much too excited for this. “I’ll be faster _que un conejo!”_

Elliott’s minimal Spanish comes in clutch, and he rolls his eyes. “Sure, buddy. Just don’t get yourself killed up there. There’s a hunter waiting for you.” He checks over his weapons, and after considering it for a moment, he takes the digital threat sniper optics off of his Triple Take. He’s not going to need it now- they’ll be fighting in too close of quarters for him to be effective with it. _Best shotgun in the Games,_ he thinks, laughing at his own joke.

“All right, coming for you guys in three, two, _one!”_ Elliott sprints out of the tunnels, sending all of his decoys spiraling in different directions. As expected, bullets begin to pepper the ground around him as he runs towards an entrance. The Ring is blocking off the two low slats at the bottom of Cage, so he makes his way to the west side door. _kzzzhhhCRACK!_ A Sentinel bullet collides with the top of his head, and he screams in pain, launching himself into the double doors. They give way, and he stumbles inside, slinging off his backpack as he goes. 

“S-shit,” he stutters, rooting through his bag for a Phoenix Kit. He locates one and stuffs his arm into it, his whole body shaking. Anita is there in an instant, tossing down a cover of smoke just in case any of the enemy team had decided to drop down to try and finish Elliott off. No such footsteps are heard, and Elliott breathes a sigh of relief.

Time is quickly running out, and the three of them really need to move. “Okay, we’ve gotta get up there fast. This is gonna suck, but I’d rather go down fighting,” he pants as the Kit finishes healing him. 

“Already on it!” Octane is somewhere above them, and Elliott hears the whirring noise of a zipline. He looks to Anita, who runs up the ramp and disappears out of sight. Elliott clambers to his feet and follows, willing his hands to stop shaking. 

“I’m gonna take out the doors!” Octane announces, and Elliott hears a frag grenade skip across the metal above him. There’s a huge _boom,_ and the doors shred into bits, the noise of it wrenching through his ears. Gas hisses and spews just as Elliott clambers to the open third floor, and Octane begins to cough. “Dammit!”

The smaller man drops down to them via the zipline and immediately pops a shield cell. “I busted the traps, but _Señor Apestoso_ just sent down more.” 

“It’s fine,” Anita replies shortly. “Is the pylon still up?”

“Yeah, but it’s out of the Ring, so the circle barely reaches them.” 

“Can you shoot it down?”

“No, it’s in a really weird spot. Kind of hiding up there. You gotta be in the middle of the room to shoot it down, and that’s a no go.”

Anita swears, but Elliott smiles, a fantastic idea popping into his head. “Not a problem. Let’s get back up there and send in some distractions,” he says. He hopes to God that things work in their favor, and he readies his Prowler before jumping to the zipline. 

His jump pack carries him up, and as he lands he dives to the right, dangerously close to the wall of the Ring. Both doors have indeed been demolished, and so has Wattson’s fence. One post still sits next to the opening, barely blocked by two of Caustic’s gas traps. Elliott shoots the traps down, but a third one comes flying down to take its place. He’s too close to it, and it goes off, releasing fumes everywhere. Gas clouds his vision and chokes his lungs, and he tries desperately to back up enough to be out of it, but the Ring is too close. Sticking a syringe into his wrist, he dips out of the Ring for just a moment. The orange energy field bites into his skin, and he groans in pain, every nerve on fire. _Damn, Natalie, way to go,_ he thinks wildly. Even in the middle of a match, he can still admire his friends’ expertise and genius, and Wattson’s engineering of the Ring is no exception.

The gas cloud dissipates and Anita and Octavio zip up, landing beside him. She shoots in a canister of smoke, and Elliott acts immediately. A decoy sprints through the busted doors, stopping just short of the edge of the Ring. Octane dashes into the room after sticking a stim into his veins, a green blur of activity that Elliott can’t quite follow. He skirts the edge of the Ring and throws a frag up onto the top floor, but it’s zapped away by Wattson’s pylon. A tattoo of bullets beats down onto the metal, and Elliott cringes, willing Octane to get out of there as his decoy disappears in a shower of blue sparks.

“Octavio, come on!” he yells. But Octane is fast, of course- he weaves through the barrage of fire with ease and comes skidding to a stop just outside the doors.

“Told you, _amigo!_ ”

“Not the time!” Elliott says, his heart pounding. Anita shoots in another canister and Elliott puts his plan into motion.

Another decoy runs lazily across the floor with a snap of Elliott’s fingers, and pretends to check the pouches in its belt. The three enemies upstairs do not shoot, having caught on to Mirage’s tricks. Anita sneaks in behind it, examines the radius of Wattson’s pylon, and makes a calculated throw with an arc star. To Elliott’s delight, it slips up above them and connects with Caustic’s foot before spectacularly exploding in a wave of dizzying energy. Elliott feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, and he takes advantage of the distraction.

He aims his Prowler up and fires, and the pylon crumples to the ground in a series of deafening crackling noises. His decoy hadn’t been a decoy at all, and the adrenaline of his plan actually _working_ floods into his chest like a rush of water. His celebration is short-lived though- the sting of bullets begins to slam across his shoulders, and he releases all of his decoys. The cloaking does its job, and he takes a brief moment to hurl a thermite grenade up above him before sprinting out the doors. Wattson’s fences putter out, roasted by the flames, and Elliott breathes a sigh of relief. 

He cheers out loud as he heals up, his body shaking in delight and shock. It had actually worked! But the job was not over yet- even though he can hear the other team groaning in pain up above him, he knows they still have to finish them off. 

“Let’s go!” Anita calls, and she ascends the zipline, closely followed by Octane. Elliott rounds the corner, reloading his Prowler. Just as he makes it to the zipline, Caustic throws down another trap, which Elliott narrowly avoids before shooting down. 

The steady _chak-chak-chak_ of a hopped up P2020 rings through the air, and a collection of bullets from Octane’s gun collides with Caustic’s face and chest. Octavio moves to reload, but Nox catches him with a deadly Mastiff shot straight to the head, shattering the smaller man’s shields. Elliott ascends the zipline and unleashes a full clip of ammo into Caustic’s arms and neck, finishing him off quickly, but Octane takes a bullet from Wattson across the way, and he falls to the floor, unconscious. 

Anita fires a full clip of ammo into Wattson’s chest, and the engineer falls to the ground, wincing and gasping. She finishes her off, but the older woman breathes hard, clearly having taken a considerable amount of bullets from somewhere as Elliott was helping Octavio. Sure enough, the percussive barrage of an R-99 shatters the brief silence, and Anita falls to the ground, swearing. 

Bloodhound emerges from the opposite corner of the room, and Elliott does not hesitate. The warning horn of the closing Ring roars out, and Elliott leaps down from the upper level, knowing there’s absolutely zero chance of reviving Anita. A few quick bullets follow him, but Bloodhound is smart enough to not completely track his erratic movement. Elliott sprints across the floor and out the doors, throwing himself off the tower and onto the grass below.

He hits the ground running, ankles and knees screaming in protest, and he thanks his lucky stars that Bloodhound can’t keep the high ground. He hears them roar in that deep, otherworldly fashion, and his stomach drops straight into his toes. The Triple Take slides into his hands as he turns, and he watches in awe as Bloodhound leaps off the tower far more gracefully than he had, surrounded by crackling red energy. He backs up, takes aim, and fires twice, but the spread of bullets is too wide and each bullet whizzes past their glowing form. He has to remind himself not to stare- it’s not the time to dwell on how powerful and majestic they look, nor is it time to listen to how heavy they’re breathing and worry if they’re okay. Elliott fires again, and the shot connects, but a torrent of bullets smashes into his chest.  
  
He swears, fumbling the Prowler back into his hands. In a panic, he sends a decoy running straight at them to give him more time, but Bloodhound shoots it down. They bob and weave, taking a second to reload. 

Elliott takes his chance. He breathes deeply, centering himself, and aims the Prowler right at their head. Time seems to slow, just like it had with Revenant, and he applies the slightest bit of pressure to his trigger finger. The bullets fly out of the gun, and he doesn’t feel the recoil at all. Every bullet finds its mark on Bloodhound’s head, obliterating their golden helmet and sinking into their mask.

Bloodhound drops to the ground and convulses for a moment before going horribly, eerily still.

Shock washes through his stomach, and he drops the Prowler. A buzzing fills Elliott’s ears. He… he actually did it? He… _beat_ Bloodhound?

He approaches Bloodhound’s unconscious form slowly, feeling like he’s in a dream, and stares at them. They look so peaceful, even though blood is leaking from their helmet down into the grass. He picks up their R-99, weighing it in his hands. A flash of memory and feeling comes to him from a few days before- _Bloodhound picking up his gun and placing it over his sternum…_

Mirage settles the R-99 across their chest gently. As he falls to his knees, a flash of pain crosses his chest. He knows he should feel triumphant- ecstatic, even- but the only thing he feels is sorrow. 

Elliott picks up their arm, crosses it across their stomach, and murmurs, “forgive me” as victory music roars over the loudspeakers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please forgive my Google Translate Spanish!
> 
> Vamonos! - Let's go!
> 
> faster que un conejo - faster than a rabbit
> 
> Señor Apestoso - Mr. Stinky (hopefully!)
> 
> As always, comments are appreciated and treasured <3


	11. one day life will be kind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for following this story! I'm so grateful for every comment and kudos. And thank you for being patient once again. I hope you enjoy today's chapter <3
> 
> Just a brief reminder that this story was planned and mapped before Pathfinder's Quest came out, so it will not follow canon.

_Mother is soft._

_They don’t know a lot of things, but they know that much. Mother is soft as she cradles them in her arms. She’s singing something sweet and soothing, and it distracts them from their tears. Why are they crying again? They don’t remember._

_They look up at her with wide, shining eyes, and watch her mouth as it moves. Her braids fall over her shoulders, and their fingers grasp at them, pulling lightly. She laughs and tugs their wandering hands away, kissing their little palm._

_“I love you, little one. Keep your curious heart with you always. It will serve you well.”_

_They’re too little to understand what she’s saying, of course, but the tenderness of her tone makes them smile and laugh. Mother is so kind and warm. And soft._

* * *

_Father is soft. Mostly._

_He tosses them gleefully in the air, and they just giggle. He catches them, of course, like he always does. Their mother looks on, caught between amusement and worry, and she cautions Johann not to drop them._

_“I won’t!” he replies, smiling at her. “Brigida, my love. You worry too much.” He looks at them. “Your mother means well, little one. She just wants to protect you.”_

_They know their parents love them. They know they’ll always be there to protect them._

_Until, of course, they aren’t._

* * *

_Artur is not soft._

_His hands are rough and scarred and cracked from how dry the air is, and they pass uncomfortably against their knee as he bandages their bleeding wound. They wish Mother was here. Her hands were always soft, made so by the lotion she spread between her palms each morning. But Mother is gone now. She’s resting under the ground, like Amma and Afi. And Father._

_“Okay,” Artur says gruffly. “No more bleeding. Better now?”_

_They nod, their tears smearing across their arm as they wipe their eyes._

_“Good. Be strong, young one. Save your tears.”_

_He stands up and pats their head, leaving them alone on the porch. The pain in their knee stings, but it soon subsides to a dull ache. They run across the meadow to lay in the grass, running their fingers through the long green blades. The grass is cool and soothing. And soft._

* * *

_Sigrid is only soft when she’s not teaching them how to throw an axe._

_“Again!” she commands, but there’s a glint of fierce pride in her eyes. They run to the target and pick up the axe from where it had fallen and scurry back to the mark._

_“Feel the weight of it in your hand, young one. Balance it, and breathe deep…”_

_They follow her instructions carefully, aiming for the center of the target. They suck air into their lungs, raise the axe, and throw as hard as they can, a small grunt leaving their chest._

_The axe embeds itself into the target, just barely off center._

_Sigrid smiles. The lines around her eyes soften._

* * *

_Some of the villagers are soft, afterwards. And some are not._

_They know it’s not their fault. Their brain knows it, but their heart can’t keep up. After all, they had failed to obey Artur in the first place, and he was dead because of that._

_He was dead because of them. And the villagers knew it._

_“Take responsibility for your actions,” one of them says, seething at them. “You will forever be in the Gods’ debt.”_

_Bloodhound had watched Artur’s funeral ship disappear over the lake. They had watched as something in Sigrid’s heart died when she looked out over the horizon._

_And years later, they watched as their aunt, too, dissolved into the water._

_There weren’t many of them left after that._

* * *

_Boone is soft._

_He often tells Bloodhound of his dreams to leave the village, to leave Talos, to become a doctor or a nurse somewhere he could properly flourish. These confessions are whispered between feverish kisses and gentle caresses in the dark- always in the dark; it’s easier that way- and Bloodhound wants to go with him._

_“There are so many opportunities out there, Hound!” he gushes to them, lying bare next to them under the thick furs, his blue eyes sparkling in the darkness. “We could save people. We could help them.” He is quiet for a moment. “We could learn things that would have saved Artur.”_

_Bloodhound is silent every time he says that. He mentions it many times. To Boone, the IMC is that opportunity for something more. Bloodhound cannot forgive, nor can they forget that the IMC’s arrogance buried their parents under the ice._

_But Boone can._

_Boone turns nineteen and leaves the village, his beautiful eyes full of pain and anger._

_Days later, Bloodhound also turns nineteen. They walk through the forest one last time, giving the old facility a wide berth, and no one from the village sees them for years._

* * *

_Bloodhound very quickly finds that the universe is like a jötunn._

_They’re nineteen and a half years old and sleeping on the streets._

_The city is too loud. It hurts their ears and rumbles constantly and plucks at their mask with its curious eyes, demanding everything. They are not careful enough. It takes from them without mercy, shreds every bit of dignity from them without restraint, rips open their chest without any care in the world who they are or who they have been._

_In a way, they’re grateful for the anonymity. They’re grateful for the trial. Every night, they offer up their pleas to the Gods to guide them and help them choose the right path. But the Allfather is no longer listening. He abandoned them the moment they left Talos._

_They think they deserve it. Just a little. (Or a lot.)_

_Sometimes, people offer them a place to stay. They decline. They are used to huddling under doorsteps, crouching beneath benches, sleeping underneath the canopy of trees in the park._

_They miss the forest. They miss the village._

_They miss Mother._

* * *

_They are twenty and they think everything might be okay._

_Ophelia smiles at them wearily, sliding them a large stack of plates to be cleaned. “Careful with these!” she always cautions. “These are the only plates this whole place has got.” Wisps of her red hair poke out from under her hairnet, and she reminds Bloodhound of Sigrid. Their heart aches in their chest._

_Their hands and forearms throb from washing pots and pans all day, but they scrub each dish carefully, stacking them next to the sink. When they are done, they sigh, remove the rubber gloves, and lean against the counter. They and Ophelia talk about everything and nothing, exchanging stories and jokes as they clean up for the night._

_But Bloodhound slips on a puddle of water and crashes into the counter, sending the stack of freshly cleaned plates tumbling into the ground. The glass shatters into millions of tiny pieces, littering the floor with a minefield of shards, and George fires them on the spot._

_George is not soft. Not in the slightest. But Bloodhound can’t even blame him._

* * *

_They are twenty and a half and their whole body aches._

_“No,” they choke, clutching their chest, pressing the respirator into their face. They’re barely keeping themself off the ground, having been brought to their knees by the burning in their lungs. “No more. Please. I cannot.”_

_“You think that because your lungs are broken that you cannot master the blade?” Huizhen barks, pointing one of the dao swords directly in their face. “You are wrong, young one, as you often are. It is not your lungs that limit you.”_

_Bloodhound wants to scream, to yell, to rage against his expectations, but this language is firm and unyielding, and their tongue cannot form the words._

_Huizhen sighs and offers them a hand. At least he is soft, sometimes._

* * *

_They are twenty-two and Kwan’s knee presses uncomfortably into their chest._

_“Please,” they gasp, trying to wrench her off of them, feeling the impact of her blows all across their body. “I am done, please, get off-”_

_“No, you are not done,” she says sternly, the line of her mouth thin and severe. Bloodhound struggles against her grip, their hands scrabbling against her knee. “You are not done until your Gods will it. Do you wish to betray your Gods, child?”_

_“No, never-”_

_“Good.” She lifts her knee and stands, leaving them gasping on the ground, massaging their ribs in anguish. “Honor them. Beg for their forgiveness and bring them glory. You are capable of so much more than this.”_

_Kwan’s eyes are hard, critical, pitying. She shakes her head at them and walks away._

* * *

_They are twenty-five and they want nothing more than to go back home to Talos._

_A fist connects with their chest, and their breath exits their lungs in a thorough whoosh. The impact knocks them back a little, and they stumble over their own feet, trying to stay upright. Another fist comes flying at their face, and they dodge it just barely. Bloodhound ducks and jabs their fist up into the man’s stomach, but he barely even flinches. He sends a fist into their gut, and another into their jaw, and they fly backwards, hitting the ground hard._

_They feel the mask break around their face, and they panic, trying to press the pieces back together. But their hands are shaking and their breathing won’t settle, and their lungs burn horribly with exertion and shame. The mask falls fully to the ground, and a thousand pairs of eyes bore holes into their face._

_“A face only a mother could love, that is!” a spectator jeers, as someone plops a wad of bills into his outstretched hand._

_“Poor ugly bastard, no one would want a face like that,” another laughs, throwing a crumpled up piece of paper into the ring. The crowd begins to laugh and boo and jeer, and Bloodhound’s heart dissolves in a roaring maw of acid._

_Their opponent looms above them, and they can’t do anything but stare up at him in terror. His eyes glint with a triumphant spark, and nothing about him is soft at all._

* * *

_They are twenty-six and their money has run out._

_They lurk in the shadows, waiting for some unsuspecting poor soul to wander out of the bar. A man stumbles out the door, leaning against the frame for a moment before he promptly throws up into the trash can._

_Bloodhound seizes their chance._

_“Are you all right?” they ask as they approach him, trying to make their tone friendly so he’s not alarmed by the mask. It doesn’t work._

_“Who’re you?” he slurs, trying to pull away from their outstretched hands._

_“Do not worry. I am just going to call you a cab,” they soothe, grabbing him to hold him upright. He immediately goes slack in their arms, and Bloodhound swiftly searches his pockets for his wallet or billfold. They locate it with ease and pocket it, and they’re left feeling a strange sense of longing._

_They haven’t touched another person like this in years. Never mind that it’s not romantic. Never mind that it’s not even platonic. The pressure of this man’s body against theirs satisfies a deep ache they have been harbouring for an eternity, and they have to force themself to instantly let go of him. He stumbles blearily and collapses against the wall of the bar, groaning._

_They walk away, the man’s wallet burning a hole in their pocket._

* * *

_They are twenty-eight and what they’re doing feels so, so wrong._

_“Just hold still,” she murmurs, her soft, well-manicured hands moving down their chest and stomach to undo the belt around their waist. Bloodhound tries to relax, tries to press their head back down into the pillows and let Keres do her work. She’s beautiful, and certainly attractive, and they know that she would treat them well, but this feels so foreign, so alien. They… they don’t deserve this. Not after… everything. Panic and fear seize their chest, and flashes of memory flit across their eyes- Boone’s beautiful blue eyes locked on theirs as he moved in to kiss them; his hands on their body as they moved together; his heartbeat in their ear as they relaxed in his arms, breathing heavily-_

_Her fingers make quick work of their belt, button, and zipper, and she’s eagerly teasing the pants off their legs when they cry out, “Stop!”_

_Keres’ lust-filled eyes wander up to theirs, and she looks irritated. Cross. “What is it?” Her voice holds no softness, only a hard frustration that Bloodhound flinches against._

_“Please, just stop,” they beg, pulling their pants back up in a hurry. “This was a mistake. I shouldn’t have done this.” They nearly kick Keres in the face in their rush, and she dodges, scoffing._

_“Fine,” she spits, sitting up straight and pushing all her gorgeous brown hair over one shoulder. “I bet you couldn’t handle me anyway.”_

_Bloodhound scrambles off the bed, grabs their bag, and is out the door before she can insult them any further. The moment they had refused, she had been so biting, so annoyed. Bloodhound does not think they would have enjoyed it like she thought they would._

_But she could have been soft._

* * *

_They are thirty-five and tired. So tired._

_They slide the card back across the table, fold their arms across their chest, and shake their head. “I have no need of your petty squabbles for fame and glory,” they say, their tone flat and emotionless. “I have my own path to follow, and I do not wish to disrupt it.”_

_Blisk shrugs. “Up to you. You know where to find me.” He pushes his chair back and stands, and then begins to walk away. But he stops, seeming to remember something, and turns. “You know, that accent of yours sounds a little familiar. Met a doctor a couple years back that sounded just like you. Wouldn’t happen to be from Talos, would you?”_

_Bloodhound stiffens. “No.”_

_“Shame.” He shrugs again, and yawns. “Knew some scientists that were there when the meltdown happened. Nasty stuff. Wonder if they might know anything about the team that died?”_

_Their blood turns to ice._

_They pick up the card and pocket it. “Count me in.”_

_Blisk smiles. There is no softness there. “That’s what I thought.”_

* * *

They are thirty-eight and their senses are muddled and crossed.

Bloodhound can just barely make out a couple of voices fighting, but they’re much too tired to try and figure out who they are.

“Hey, look, I’m just trying to see if they’re okay-”

“And _I_ am telling _you_ that their medical details are none of your business. Bloodhound’s privacy contract very clearly states that no one aside from myself or Ms. Che is allowed inside their room after matches without their express consent. You will just have to wait, Mr. Witt.”

“...Damn. You’re just as stubborn as they are.” A pause. Then, “Why do you sound just like them?”

Bloodhound’s eyes flutter, then open.

An ache immediately settles into their limbs, concentrating in their skull and neck and radiating outward to their extremities. The light from above the medical bed pierces their eyes and makes them sting, and they turn their head away in discomfort. Their head feels like it weighs a thousand pounds. Bloodhound groans a little, their hand moving to rub their eyes. Someone has removed their helmet and goggles, but they’re not afraid. They trust their doctor with their life.

The sound of quiet feet greets their ears and they look up, squinting through the bright lights above them. “ _What happened?_ ” they ask in their native tongue, and their mouth is uncomfortably dry. 

_“It seems that you lost."_ Boone’s voice is tired, annoyed. Bloodhound’s vision clears up, and they watch as Boone scribbles on a clipboard, his blue eyes sparkling under brows furrowed in concentration. His white-blond hair is tied up in a bun, little wisps falling out at his hairline and his nape. A long-forgotten curl of fondness takes place under Bloodhound’s ribs, but they allow it to drain away, knowing they’re just high on pain medication. Their time with him has long since passed.

 _“And so it does. How long was I asleep?_ _”_ Their voice feels brittle and drained, and they swallow to bring some moisture back. It’s difficult, but eventually their mouth no longer feels dry and sticky. “ _And where is Artur?”_

“ _I_ _sent Artur on his way. He’s fine. Not a scratch on him. It’s only been a couple hours since the end of the match._ ” Boone replies. He finishes writing and clicks his pen. “ _You’re good to go. Rig did its job. You should only have a headache for a couple hours.”_ Boone inclines his head toward the door, finally looking at them. “ _You’ve got a visitor, by the way, and he’s quite insistent upon seeing you. Keeps bothering me every time I leave the room._ ”

Bloodhound’s eyes wander to the door, and they spot shadows of a pair of feet passing back and forth on the other side of it. They would recognize Elliott’s anxious pacing anywhere. A smile wanders onto their face, and they forget that they do not have their goggles on to help hide their emotions. 

Boone scoffs and rolls his eyes, his jaw set. “ _Really, Hound? Mirage? That’s just pathetic.”_

 _“What do you mean?”_ Bloodhound asks, a hint of defensiveness creeping into their heart. 

_“Heartthrob of the Outlands, isn’t he? Bet he’s got a new person in his bed every other night.”_ Boone strides over to the whiteboard on the wall and jots down a few notes.

A strange flash of annoyance strikes Bloodhound’s chest, and their eyebrows furrow. “ _You don’t know that, Boone. For all you know, he could be completely inexperienced._ ”

Boone laughs, his face incredulous and doubting. “ _That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard, Houndie. Mirage, a virgin? Even_ **_you_ ** _know that’s a load of shit._ ”

“ _Don’t call me Houndie,_ ” they snap, locating their goggles to put them back on. “ _You know I don’t like that._ ”

“ _Oh, fine,_ **_Bloodhound_** _,_ ” he replies, rolling his eyes. He hands them their helmet from where it had been lying on a side table, just as they finish stretching their limbs. “ _Just get your things and get out of here. And if he kisses you, don’t say I told you so._ ”

Bloodhound’s cheeks burn fiercely, and they’re more than happy to put the helmet back on. “ _Him? Kiss me? You’re out of your mind, Boone._ ” They get up from the bed and test their balance, keeping a hand on the sheets. Their head pounds and spins just a little bit, but they breathe deep through the respirator and the spinning soon stops. “ _Elliott would never bother with a face like this. Besides, who said I was interested?”_

 _“Oh, it’s Elliott now?”_ Boone smirks. “ _That familiar with him, are you?”_

“ _Oh, hush,”_ Bloodhound says, already irritated with him. “ _Do I get anything for the pain, or must I suffer even more because of your nonsense?_ ”

“ _Oh, you mean you_ **_don’t_ ** _like taking an entire magazine of R-99 bullets to the head?”_ he says sarcastically, already starting to change the bedsheets. “ _Of course I’m helping you out. Top drawer, over there.”_ He points to the counter in the corner, and Bloodhound goes to retrieve the bottle of pills. “ _Don’t say I never gave you anything._ ”

“ _You know I would never say that,_ ” Bloodhound sighs, rolling their eyes and pocketing the small bottle. Boone was often so sarcastic and assuming- those were qualities that Bloodhound did not like in him. Even after nearly a lifetime of losing each other and finding each other, there were some things that never changed. _“Thank you, Boone.”_

 _“The pleasure’s all mine, Hound.”_ Boone nods to them as they walk out into the hall, and Bloodhound inclines their head towards him as they shut the door.

Bloodhound winces as a wave of pain radiates throughout their skull. They can’t wait till they are safely in their apartment so they can take off the mask, down some of the pain pills, and hopefully take a nap. The medical bay is mostly empty now, with only a few doctors and nurses walking through the halls towards their patients. They look around the hallway, and sure enough, Elliott is standing up from his chair, a relieved expression on his face. 

“Hey,” he says, a smile breaking through as he walks toward them. “Your doctor finally let you go, huh?”

“Yes, he did,” Bloodhound replies, glancing behind them to make sure they properly closed the door. “I trust him with my life. I hope you can understand his reluctance to allow anyone inside while I am not aware of who is present.”

“Of course,” Elliott replies, nodding. “Hey, why does he sound like you? You guys have really similar ac- accents. Are you siblings or something?”

A funny little jolt electrifies Bloodhound’s veins, and weirdly, they laugh. “No. Boone and I are not siblings, but… we did grow up together.” The casualness with which they drop such a guarded piece of information startles even Bloodhound, and they snap their mouth shut. Thankfully, Elliott has seemed to pick up on when they feel uncomfortable, so he does not push the question further, even though Bloodhound can tell he wants to.

“Are you okay?” He fidgets with his fingers a little, and Bloodhound notices that he has not yet gone home to shower- his hands are caked in dirt and blood. He still smells like sweat and gunpowder, but Bloodhound can just barely make out the scent of his cologne beneath it all. They blush.

“I am fine, Elliott. Why are you still here?” they ask, a little harsher than intended. They find themself wishing they could take off the mask so he could see the smile that they force onto their face so he knows they’re not mad. 

“I just wanted to make sure you were okay,” he replies, shrugging. “Can’t a man check on his friend?” He raises an eyebrow, and Bloodhound can sense the playfulness in his tone.

“You are right,” they admit, bowing their head a little. “Thank you. You are very kind.” They stand there awkwardly, not sure whether to leave or stay, but Elliott begins to walk to the exit, and Bloodhound follows him without a second thought. “Congratulations on your win today, _félagi._ It was much deserved, and I am proud of your improvement.”

Elliott laughs and ruffles his own hair, and the way it sticks up makes a curious little feeling rest under Bloodhound’s ribs. “Hey, thanks! I’d say sorry for landing you in the hospital, but it’s just an uc- up- occupational hazard at this point.” He shrugs. “Least I could do is make sure you’re okay.”

“I will be fine,” they assure him. “I have a headache, but it will soon subside.” Bloodhound rolls their neck as they walk, sighing. They suddenly remember the way they had run out on Elliott the night before, and shame floods their stomach, twisting it painfully.

“I am sorry for leaving so abruptly last night,” they murmur, their own fingers beginning to fidget with the bits of fabric on their coat. “I… I was overcome by an unpleasant memory, and I did not want to disturb you with my emotions.” The apology does not feel sufficient enough. Elliott has been so patient with them, so kind and supportive, and they’ve done nothing but hide from him. They want… they want to open up to him. Would that be safe? Would it be smart? They don’t know, but the burden of keeping everything to themself is beginning to weigh on them, and they hope that Elliott can withstand the enormity of their secrets.

Elliott shakes his head. “I was really worried about you.” His voice is low and warm, and it feels like an embrace of warmth. His arm twitches, and it almost feels like he wants to grab their hand. But he thinks better of it, and instead goes back to fidgeting with his fingers. “It means a lot, what you told me. I know that must have been hard.”

Bloodhound’s heart fills with a hope they haven’t felt in years, and if they weren’t still in the hospital, they would have pulled him into their arms right then and there. The urge is so unlike them, so uncharacteristic of their usual persona that they wonder just how much the pain medication is affecting them. They settle their emotions and touch his arm briefly. “Thank you, _vinur minn_. I am blessed by your willingness to listen.”

An idea comes to their head, and if they had thought of it a couple weeks ago, they would have immediately rejected it. But things could change so quickly, and they had. Elliott is a testament to that. So they open their mouth and ask, “Would you like to visit me in my apartment later this evening? After we have both sufficiently washed, of course.” Their cheeks burn spectacularly at the implication, but he cannot see it, and for that, they are grateful. “I owe you a great many explanations.”

Elliott looks like he’s just been hit with a frag grenade. He stares at them blankly for a few agonizing moments, and Bloodhound thinks they have overstepped their bounds, but he begins to babble. “I- are you sure? I mean, yeah, absolutely! That would be great!” The grin that splits his face makes their heart leap spectacularly in their chest. “I would love to. You definitely owe me, H- I mean, Bloodhound.” His cheeks blaze, and it’s so endearing to Bloodhound that they smile at him stupidly underneath the mask.

“It is settled, then,” they announce, just as the pair of them reach the exit. “You are welcome to arrive any time after eight. That should give us both plenty of time to wash up and eat dinner.”

Elliott nods vigorously, smiling like a schoolboy. “It’s a date! I-I mean-” His face drains of color and he shakes his head. “It’s a, uh, it’s a m-meeting, or whatever you want it to be. I mean, it could be a date if you wanted but I, uh, I mean, that would be fine, I… guess?” The poor man looks like he wants to melt into the floor, and Bloodhound’s heart pounds in their chest as they chuckle.

Bloodhound is enchanted by his eagerness, by his willingness to be with them, and they hope they are not making more out of this than it is. “I will see you then, Elliott,” they say, touching his arm once more. They give him one last lingering look before they walk out the door and into the crisp Solace air.


	12. give me a piece of your heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi friends! Happy Season 8! I hope you're all enjoying Fuse as much as I am. He's incredible and I love his personality!
> 
> A quick note: I have the Pathfinder's Quest book and I finished it today! It was mind-blowing and amazing and SO, SO GOOD. Unfortunately, this fic can no longer fit into canon because of what we find out about Bloodhound. Don't worry, I won't be spoiling! I had a story set up for them before I read the lore book, and that's the story I'll be sticking to. Maybe one day I'll write some canon things, but for now, this story is no longer canon-compliant. Part of me is sad to have all the answers, but hey! That's what makes canon-divergent fics so fun :)
> 
> Enjoy!

Elliott practically flies down the street towards the Legends’ apartment complex, bursting with nervousness and energy as he goes. The torrential downpour of rain doesn’t even manage to dampen his mood; he’s got a heavy-duty umbrella and an upbeat attitude that could make the skies clear up in moments. Bloodhound’s proposition hangs in his head, and he clings to it with an embarrassing neediness.  _ ‘Would you like to visit me in my apartment later this evening?’  _ they had asked, and he thought his heart would burst out of his chest. He feels like a dumbass for the way he had reacted-  _ god,  _ he was so lame. Falling over his words, making the simplest mistakes… What fourteen year old in the area had reached out and possessed him? Whoever it was, he’d have to have a strong talk with them later.

After arriving back to his apartment above the bar, he’d scrubbed himself clean and very meticulously arranged his hair. He’d eventually chosen a deep purple sweater over a light blue button down, a pair of his nicer dark jeans, a black belt, and sneakers to wear for the evening. He’d hemmed and hawed in front of the mirror for at least twenty minutes, rolling and unrolling his sleeves, second guessing each outfit choice he made until he settled. He had decided to keep the sleeves rolled up, but the easy confidence he usually has in himself has chosen to take a pointed leave of absence.

Elliott really does feel like a teenager obsessing over their first date all over again, but he has to remind himself  _ it’s not a date, it’s just a talk. A nice evening in. A nice evening alone with Bloodhound. _ His cheeks blaze, and the enormity of his crush on them plummets onto his head all at once. 

_ Ahh, shit. _

He finally lets his thoughts race and wander while thinking about them. For the first time in days, he lets himself linger on his memories of their face, though the quick glimpse he had gotten had not left him with much to remember. Their gorgeous red hair, their piercing green eyes, the striking contours of their face… They are so beautiful, and he would do anything to see their face again.

A giddy smile crosses his face when he thinks of all the times they’ve touched him on the arm or on the shoulder, or held his hands so softly. They had exuded kindness and compassion in those moments, the genuineness of which Elliott has not truly felt in a while. Bloodhound’s quiet vulnerability in the bar the other night had struck him as both odd and humbling; their increasing trust in him is something he definitely doesn’t want to take for granted. 

The complex comes into view and Elliott’s heart starts to pound harder in his chest. It takes a great deal of effort to not run all the way to their door… until he realizes he doesn’t know which floor is theirs, much less which door.

_ Bzzt!  _ His phone vibrates in his back pocket, and he jumps a little before retrieving it. A message from an unknown number is emblazoned across the lock screen:

_ Second floor, number 14. _

_ -BH _

Excitement and happiness surges through his veins, and he immediately saves their contact information. God, is he really  _ that _ pumped about having their number? A big stupid smile stretches across his face, and he wants to smack himself.  _ Chill, Elliott, chill. You’ve gotta get ahold of yourself before you get up there.  _ He takes a deep breath and sends a quick reply to Bloodhound as he continues down the sidewalk, valiantly avoiding the puddles. 

_ Nearly there! How’d you get my number? _

A reply flashes through faster than he thought it would.

_ Renee owed me a favor. I hope it is all right that I asked her. _

_ Oh, yeah, that’s fine! No problem :) _

He has to physically restrain himself from adding a little heart; Renee or Octavio or Makoa were used to his nonsense, but he figures Bloodhound would only find it strange for him to be adding those things to his texts right off the bat. He’s busy smiling off into space when his phone vibrates again.

_ I am looking forward to seeing you. _

Elliott’s heart practically explodes in his chest, and he steps right into a puddle.

* * *

Bloodhound can’t stay still.

Ever since those traitorous words had fallen from their mouth, they’d been on red alert, their brain and body a hopeless torrent of conflicting emotions that hadn’t quite settled. They think it’s fitting that it is raining; it seems the Allfather is showing his sympathies in the smallest of ways. The rain patters against the windows in a steady rhythm, and under any other circumstance it would have been very calming. They would have shed the mask and goggles and snuggled into the couch with a book and a cup of tea, but tonight, that isn’t an option. Instead, they’re wandering aimlessly around their apartment- cleaning corners that don’t really need to be cleaned, tending to Artur, and sipping at a glass of water every time they walk by the kitchen.

They’d hopped into the shower immediately after arriving home and cleaned every inch of their skin with an annoying attention to detail. Their anxiety had mounted in their chest until they had had to sit on the cold tiles of the shower with their head between their legs.  _ Everything is going to be fine, _ they’d repeated to themself over and over again.  _ Elliott would never hurt you. _

The thought is ironic because of the stubborn headache at the base of their skull- Boone’s pain medicine had done little to abate the throbbing in their neck. As they think back on their day, they feel a surge of pride for Elliott. It seems that he is finally allowing himself to succeed, instead of limiting himself like he had before. He had truly surprised them today. Where they had once seen hesitation and worry, it had been replaced with deadly precision and focus, and Bloodhound would not change the outcome of the match even if they could. Elliott had been a wonderful sight to behold.

The frantic fear is nearly gone, but it lingers just enough to make them a little self-conscious. Opting not to wear their Games attire, they’ve picked a thick turtleneck, fitted cargo pants, woolen socks, and a slimmer pair of gloves that will hide their hands but not hinder any movement. The mask is laid on the table, ready to be put on at a moment’s notice. They’re already wearing the helmet, their goggles, and the leather cap. They’ve always hated having to pile wet hair under the hood, but their plans left them no choice. Bloodhound hasn’t cared much about their physical appearance in years, but for some reason, the idea of being alone with Elliott again makes them want to hide away in embarrassment.

An eager knock at the door startles Bloodhound, and they very nearly knock over their glass.

Their heart starts pumping in their chest, and their fingers fumble a little as they clip the respirator to the cap. Immediately, their breathing comes easier, and they scold themself for going so long without it this evening. Bloodhound makes their way to the door and opens it, revealing an absolutely drenched Elliott holding a broken umbrella in one hand and a pair of sopping wet sneakers in the other. 

“Hey! I, uh, definitely stepped in a ton of puddles on the way here. I usually watch where I’m going but these ones were sac- ski- scattered everywhere, so I couldn’t see them at all, and then of  _ course _ the wind picked up and shredded my umbrella, so I’m totally soaked.” He shrugs helplessly and shakes the bent umbrella off a little, showering Bloodhound’s feet with droplets of water. “Ah, shit. Sorry!”

They shake their head at him and sigh, and a shiver goes through their body as they think about being drenched in this weather. “It is of no consequence, Elliott, I can very easily change socks. Please, come in,” they say, and they lead him into their apartment.

They try not to look at him as he takes in their apartment, suddenly insecure about how simple and bare it looks. The apartment had come furnished, but it is not quite to their tastes. Bloodhound prefers a more homey and warm feel, not the modern, sleek look that is so popular these days. The windows in the living room are quite large. Bloodhound had had a tinted effect added to them immediately- for their anonymity and so the light coming in would not be quite so harsh on their sensitive eyes. The furnishings are a combination of aesthetically pleasing colors and fabrics, all tones of white or grey or brown. A couple of plush blankets are draped over the back of the couch, and minimalistic frames are hung on the walls, great white voids containing typeface quotes and old cliches. The fireplace is an inordinate monolith of dark stone, and if Bloodhound had thought of it, they would have started a fire to make it seem less dull and boring. The thought occurs to them that they should have made this place more welcoming, but they are not vain enough to care in the long run. After all, will Elliott even want to return after he receives the answers to his questions? Bloodhound thinks not.

“Wow,” Elliott remarks, leaning his umbrella against the wall by the door. “It’s so clean.” He strips off his socks and rolls up his pants a little so the soggy ends aren’t rubbing around his ankles. The cuffs fit tightly around his very sculpted calves, and Bloodhound blushes before looking away pointedly.

“This space is not to my tastes,” they reply, watching him walk around. “My real home is much more  _ notalegt-  _ cozy- and warm. Not cold and unfeeling like this place is.” 

“Your real home?” he asks, glancing at them. “You don’t live in the Legends complexes full time?”

“I stay in the buildings during the on season, but during the off season, I retreat to a modest cabin in the woods,” they explain, and they realize they’ve made their first confession of the night.  _ That... wasn’t so bad.  _ “There are bookshelves from floor to ceiling, a large fireplace, plenty of furs to keep warm, and a view that would take your breath away. I quite enjoy it.” 

“That sounds amazing,” he grins.  _ That smile… _ Bloodhound has to take a deep breath.

“Maybe I will show you one day,” they say, surprising themself with how easily they offer. “It is a beautiful place, and I think you would like it.” 

“Really?” he asks, surprised. “You’d, uh… you’d let me go with you?”

“Perhaps,” they murmur, and their heart starts to beat hard in their chest again. They notice he’s still carrying his wet shoes and socks, and they move to take them from him. “Here. Let me start a fire. Your shoes and socks will be dry in no time.” 

“Oh, thank you!” he replies cheerily, and the smile he gives them makes their heart skip a beat. They take the soggy items from him, cringing a bit at the questionable texture, and set them on the mantle for a moment. Overly aware of how closely he’s watching them, they kneel down, turn the gas knob, and light the fire quickly. In moments, a rosy glow emanates from the fireplace and Bloodhound pulls the screens over to eliminate any chance of Elliott’s things going up in flames. They reach up and place the shoes and socks on a small rack in front of the fire, and then they stand and retreat to their room for a moment.

Before long, they return to the living room wearing a fresh pair of socks and carrying a pair for Elliott. “Here,” they say, holding them out to him. “So your feet are not cold. It can be drafty in here when it rains.”

A pink tinge comes to his cheeks, and he accepts them hesitantly. “You’re way too nice,” he grumbles quietly as he sinks down onto the couch. He puts them on and then pushes his floppy wet hair out of his face. “Hey, can I borrow your hair dryer?” he asks, giving them a questioning glance.

“I… do not own one,” they reply, face burning. “Mine gave out a few weeks ago and I have not yet had time to buy another.”

To their surprise, he grins widely and looks away, suddenly very focused on the fire. “That’s all right,” he says, and his voice is curiously flustered. “I can just sit in front of the fireplace for a bit. You’re about to see the fluffiest hair the Outlands has to offer.” He laughs and rolls his eyes, raking his hands through his messy mop. 

The thought of Elliott with an untamed mess of curly hair makes them smile like a lovesick teenager, and they’re so, so glad they’re still wearing the mask. “So your hair is not perfect all the time?” they tease, sitting down on the couch next to him. They leave a respectable distance between them, but the distance is smaller than it would have been two or three weeks ago. “Ah, so he  _ does _ have a flaw. Artur, can you believe it?”

They look to Artur’s perch where the bird has been sleeping peacefully throughout all of this. The bird shakes his beak and gives a soft caw before shuffling along his branch, completely ignoring Bloodhound. They shake their head at him.  _ Unhelpful creature, _ they think affectionately.

Elliott scoffs and says, “Psh, no! I’m absolutely fal- flo- fu- perfect. My hair just has a life of its own sometimes.” He flips his hair to the opposite side and gives Bloodhound a ridiculously goofy expression. It takes everything in them to not burst out laughing, and they would have given him a deadpan expression if they could.

“Like your aim with an R-99, then,” they reply, keeping their voice as even as possible.

His mouth drops open, but he’s smiling. “Wh-What? Was that a joke? Did you actually just tell a joke?” A huge, incredulous laugh escapes his throat and he grabs his chest, and Bloodhound almost loses it. “That’s a little unfair though, considering how I absolutely lasered you today.”

It’s Bloodhound’s turn to laugh, and their face hurts from how much they’ve smiled lately. “You are correct, Elliott,” they admit, holding their hands up in a placating gesture. “I was very impressed with your skill this morning. Your precision and focus made you a formidable opponent, and I was honored to fight with you.”

Instead of the cocky, arrogant response they have come to expect from him, Elliott actually blushes. It is a welcome change; his cheeks turn a lovely shade of red and he looks away, biting his lip. “Thanks,” he says simply, and his voice is… bashful? 

Bloodhound does not quite know what to make of that.

* * *

His face burns fiercely and he can’t meet their eyes. He loves getting praise from his fans and from his friends, but getting praised by Bloodhound somehow means so much more. Maybe it’s because they’re so skilled, or maybe it’s because he respects them the most out of any other Legend, but such high compliments coming from them renders him a little speechless. 

“Hey, I know this is dumb since we’re paid to kill each other, but, um… Sorry about today,” he says sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head. “Taking an entire clip of ammo to the head always gives you a nasty headache.”

Bloodhound huffs quietly, and Elliott takes that to be a soft laugh. “Do not worry,  _ vinur minn. _ I am perfectly fine. It was simply the Allfather’s will for me to lose today, and I am not offended.”

Elliott lets out a small chuckle, relieved. “Well, that’s good to know. I was worried I might have broken your mask.”

They tap their mask firmly, and it makes a solid  _ thunk  _ sound. “You see? Perfectly fine,” they reply, and Elliott can hear the smile in their voice. “It is quite solid and substantial. Unlike much of your humor.”

Elliott stares at them open mouthed. “I’m wounded, Bloodhound, truly!” he rebutts, scandalized. He flops back against the couch dramatically, the back of his hand pressed against his forehead.  _ Bloodhound, making multiple jokes in one night? The world must be ending,  _ he thinks, and he doesn’t even care that the jokes are coming at his expense.

Bloodhound laughs, and  _ God, _ he’s missed that sound. The gentle lilt, the soft breathiness of their voice… Elliott blushes even as he giggles, and he treasures the noise they’re making. 

“I have been known to be humorous now and again,” they say, still chuckling. 

Elliott can only smile and shake his head in wonder as the two of them laugh, and soon, he’s wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. “Wow. Okay, out of all the things I expected tonight it definitely wasn’t that.”

“And what have you expected for this evening, Elliott?” Bloodhound cocks their head and leans back into the couch, folding their arms.

A thrill of joy runs its course throughout his body when they say his name, and he finds it strange. Bloodhound has surely said his name hundreds of times, but this feels different. Elliott is sure he’s overthinking it, but the way they had said it feels like they were humming a song. 

His entire body glows with warmth.   
  
“You promised me answers,” he says carefully as the giddiness starts to drain away. “You don’t have to go into specifics but… still, you promised answers.”

Bloodhound is silent for a moment, and their hands fidget lightly in their lap. Then they nod. “Yes. I do owe you answers, so please, ask whatever you would like.” Their voice is guarded and serious, and the shift in attitude is sobering. 

Elliott notices how discomfort begins to creep into their posture, and so he resolves to not push them any further than they are willing to be pushed. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, the air hissing between his teeth as he leans back and begins to think. “Okay, um… Well, I was worried about your mask breaking because I don’t know how it works or how it helps. Can I ask why you need it?”

The question only makes Bloodhound’s body language tighten up more. They are silent for several long moments, seeming to ponder and consider his question.  _ Was that too much right out of the gate?  _ he thinks frantically, and he’s about to redact his question when they let out a big breath and begin to speak.

“When I was a child, I was… in an accident,” they say, but something about their admission feels shallow, as if they have more to tell. “No. I made a grave mistake.”

Elliott takes a deep breath and readjusts himself on the couch. He can tell this story will be a long one, and he intends to listen to every word.

“In my culture, young warriors must endure a rite of passage that shows our strength and our transition into adulthood,” Bloodhound explains. “My test was to  _ slátra  _ a prowler beast. I was afraid, but... I knew the Allfather would guide me.” They pause for a moment, and Elliott hangs on to their every word. “I followed its tracks to an abandoned IMC facility deep in the woods, but what I found there was far more  _ hryllilegur _ . Horrible,” they add when Elliott raises an eyebrow. 

“A jötunn had made its home there. It is a terrifying beast, all horns and teeth and claws. It is as large as some of the buildings in Slum Lakes, if you can recall. I began to run away, but I found a prototype Charge Rifle and shot the beast. I thought it was dead. I collected its horn to present to my uncle, but he was... disappointed in me.” They sigh deeply as dread begins to pool in Elliott’s stomach. “I had rejected the sacred laws of the Hunt by using a gun in order to defeat this beast. Artur was steadfast, immovable in his convictions, and no matter how hard I tried to convince him of my victory, he would not validate it.

“I left in anger. I was a child, only fourteen years old, but if the other village elders knew what I had done, they would have exiled me. I was... so ashamed.” Bloodhound swallows, and it sounds like it takes a lot of effort. “I retreated to the forest to be alone, as I often did, and… the jötunn was there. It was not dead, as I had hoped. It sought revenge.

“I tried my best to fight it off. My uncle was alerted to my cries, and came to help, along with many other villagers. They fought, and…” Their voice tightens, and Elliott’s heart breaks. “Many died. Including my uncle.”

Their voice has become achingly vulnerable and soft the longer they’ve spoken, and Elliott wants nothing more than to reach out and take their hands again. He shifts closer to them on the couch, closing the gap ever so slightly. His eyes stay glued to their mask, and the lenses of their goggles reflect the flickering light of the fireplace. He’s always found the mask to be either intimidating or expressionless, but Bloodhound’s sadness speaks for them, and the mask seems to be considerably more morose than usual. 

“I sought the beast out,” they continue, and Elliott is surprised by how quietly angry and low their voice is. “It had returned to the abandoned facility. The halls had been equipped with coolant lines in case of an explosion or other emergency, and I broke them in order to immobilize the beast. But I breathed too much of it in, and… it dehydrated and froze my skin and lungs, leaving me scarred. Fortunately, I was able to find an oxygen mask just before I succumbed to the cold. Once the beast was frozen, I killed it with my uncle’s axe, fulfilling my test.”

Bloodhound is quiet for some time, and it takes Elliott a moment to realize they’re done talking. He knows he’s staring, and he knows he looks like he’s pitying them, and he fights to find an adequate response. “I’m so sorry, Bloodhound,” he murmurs, and he reaches out to them hesitantly. He takes their hands ever so softly, giving them every opportunity to pull away. “I’m so sorry you had to deal with such horrible things when you were younger. That sounds really tra- tor- traumatizing.” He’s struck by an incredible urge to pull them into his arms and hold them close, and a wave of embarrassment runs through his body as he presses that urge down.

Bloodhound’s hands begin to tremble in his, and he’s alerted to their discomfort immediately. Their breathing comes quicker and shallower even through the mask, and he holds onto them tighter. “Hey, are you okay?” he asks, worried.

“I-” Their voice breaks and Elliott’s heart clenches in his chest. “I- I am sorry, Elliott, you do not want to see me like this-” Bloodhound makes an attempt to pull away and stand, but Elliott holds on tight, keeping them right where they are.

“Hey, hey,” he soothes. “It’s okay! It’s all right. I’m not bothered by you being emotional. It’s actually pretty refreshing, honestly. Makes you feel more normal, like the rest of us.”

They laugh weakly, and Elliott sighs in relief. “T-Thank you,  _ vinur minn _ . I just- I am prone to anxiety attacks, and…” They suck in a huge lungful of air, but they’re still shaking. “That is why I left the other night. When you asked me about Artur, I was overcome and needed to leave as quickly as possible. Please do not take any offense- it was not your fault.”

Elliott’s chest fills with a strange sense of compassion and guilt, and he squeezes their hands comfortingly. “It’s okay, Bloodhound,” he reassures them. “I’m not mad. Just… worried.” The admission makes him feel exposed and overbearing all at once, and he really hopes he’s not making them uncomfortable.

An idea comes to his mind. “Hey,” he says quietly. “Breathe with me.” 

Bloodhound stiffens, and Elliott hopes to God he hasn’t somehow offended them. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply, and after a moment, he hears Bloodhound inhale greatly as well. He finds himself rubbing his thumbs back and forth across their rough gloves, just like they had done to him a few nights ago. He lets the air calm him and settle his racing heart. He still doesn’t really know what he’s doing, or if he’s even doing this right, but to his delight, Bloodhound’s breathing begins to slow and even out. They gradually stop shaking, and he smiles. 

Elliott opens his eyes. “Better?” he asks, and he gives their hands a quick squeeze. 

They are quiet for a moment. “Nearly,” they murmur, and they pull their hands away. Elliott’s face falls, and rejection begins to rise in him, but they take off their gloves and reach for him once more. He eagerly closes the gap between his shaking fingers and theirs. The place where they make first contact with his skin- a small place near his thumb- tingles pleasantly, and the warmth of their hand settles in his. He inhales sharply, and beams as their fingers curl into his own. 

“Better.” They are so quiet and soft as they speak, and Elliott almost misses what they say. “Your kindness is a blessing to me,  _ kæri vinur. _ Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he smiles, trying to find their eyes beyond the lenses of their goggles. Despite his happiness, he finds himself wishing that he could search their face for meaning, for emotion, for clarity. He knows why they need and wear the mask. He knows why he will likely never see their face again. But, damn, does he desperately want to gaze upon them just one more time. He doesn’t know what  _ kæri vinur _ means, but he can’t help but notice the similarities between it and what they usually call him. 

He doesn’t dare to hope it means anything.

...does he?

“Do you… do you want to talk about it, or…?” he trails, attempting to do what they had done a few nights ago. 

“No, Elliott,” they reply, but their voice is not unkind. Their grip on his hands tightens for a moment, then they loosen, and it sends a thrill down Elliott’s spine. “Your help was more than enough to calm me.”

He adjusts himself on the couch, and his knee brushes against theirs. The only light in the room comes from the quietly crackling fire, and it highlights Bloodhound’s features with a silhouette of warmth. His heart starts to pound in his chest once more, and every sense heightens. Elliott suddenly becomes aware of how intimate and vulnerable this little bubble of space is, and his shoulders tense in anticipation of something he knows will never come. He wants to pull them close. He wants to lace his fingers in theirs. He wants to…

“Can I trust you, Elliott?”

They sound so… exposed. So afraid. His breath catches in his throat for a moment. “O-Of course, Bloodhound. You can trust me with anything,” he murmurs, rubbing his thumbs across their knuckles reassuringly. He’s surprised by how rough their hands are, and it’s only then that he remembers the silvery spider web scars stretching across their skin. 

“Then… there is something I wish to share with you,” they reply, and their hands begin to tremble in his again. They let go of him, and to his utter shock, their hands go to their helmet, edging towards the many clasps that fasten it to their goggles and respirator.

“W-Wait, hold on,” he stutters, and he reaches for their hands again. “A-Are you- hey, you really don’t have to do that if you don’t want to, I mean- I mean, are you absolutely sure?” He stares at them in confusion and worry, and his stomach is an unintelligible knot of emotion. Elliott searches their mask and their body language, trying desperately to figure out what the hell they’re thinking.

“If I was not sure I would not be doing this,” they chide gently, and they remove their hands from his grip. “Please, just let me do this.  _ Ég er svo-  _ I am so tired of hiding.”

Elliott can’t argue with that. 

“Okay,” he says, still very unsure. His hands fall back into his lap.

* * *

The child inside them shakes and trembles horribly as they raise their hands to their head. Part of them screams and begs for them to stop, and it’s only in this moment that they realize that part is the terrified twenty-five year old that had had their mask shattered in front of all those people so long ago. That crowd had been so cruel, but Elliott could never share their vitriol, their hatred. Bloodhound has seen into the man’s heart more than they ever thought they would, and no trace of cruelty exists inside him.

How long has it been since they willingly showed someone else their face? Five years? Ten? Ajay seeing them had been a complete and total accident- one that they had learned not to mind. Boone had grown up with them, of course, so he does not count. But Elliott… At the beginning of this night, they never would have dreamed of doing what they’re about to do. But Elliott is so kind, so thoughtful and accepting that their heart yearns for him greatly, and they can ignore that fact no longer.

Their fingers fumble with the straps of their helmet, but something drives them forward. It drives them to be vulnerable- to be open and take a risk. Elliott has seen their face already, so why are they so nervous? He has seen the scars they bear- why are they trembling like the young one they used to be? They do not know, but they hope that the price of them being so vulnerable is a price he’s willing to pay. 

_ There is no turning back now,  _ they think. 

With trembling hands, they remove the helmet, cap, goggles, and finally, the mask. 


	13. my heart still beats, and my skin still feels

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back! Thank you so, so much for your patience on this fic. I never intended for there to be a month in between chapters, but my life took a very sudden and very painful turn a few weeks ago that prevented me from writing for some time. I am unfortunately going through a divorce- something I never expected in a million years to happen. It's been very difficult to write about two characters falling in love while going through something like this. But I feel like I'm doing relatively well, and this chapter helped me to process some of my feelings about everything. Thank you again for your patience, and here we go! This chapter is a little shorter than the last few have been; sorry about that!
> 
> Brief reminder that I started writing and planning this fic before Pathfinder's Quest came out, so it does not align with canon. :)

Bloodhound settles the goggles in their lap, their hands eerily still, but Elliott only has eyes for their face. His mouth opens slightly, and he sucks in a light gasp. He never would have thought it possible, but they are so much more beautiful than he remembers. And he’s so _close_ to them, too. Elliott is able to notice the details he had missed before now, like the fact that their gorgeous green eyes have the lightest rim of gold around the pupil. And Bloodhound has freckles! They dust their face lightly, none too prominent, but Elliott’s eyes roam over the constellation of dots, his heart dizzyingly happy. The slopes of their cheekbones are defined and proud, and their jawline is firm. Their pink lips are full and soft, parted slightly as they draw in shaking breaths. Bloodhound’s fire-red hair falls down past their shoulders in damp waves, and Elliott badly wants to run his hands through it. He pushes that desire way, way down to the bottom of his stomach. 

The very last thing notices are the scars. All this time, all the moments he’s spent trying to remember them, he had had no recollection of them having scars. The quick glimpse he had got of them hadn’t left time for him to notice any. The presence of them doesn’t bother him at all- in fact, he only thinks they make them look more distinguished and beautiful. The same type of silvery spider web lines that are on their hands stretch across their face, only they’re a little darker. Each scar starts at the edges of their face and stretches inwards towards their nose. The middle of their face is the most unscathed, leaving a spotlight of unmarred ivory skin. Elliott’s eyes roam over their face, and if he wasn’t so enchanted, he might have been embarrassed at his open staring. A faded gash interrupts the softness of their mouth, and another scar slashes vertically through their right eye. 

A soft smile crosses his face when he realizes the two of them have a matching scar. 

His hand rises unconsciously, without his permission, and he reaches out. To his utter horror, they flinch, and their vulnerable eyes fill with fear. They capture his wrist in a flash, just before his fingers can caress their cheek. 

_“Nei. Vins-_ please do not do that _,”_ they mutter, and their voice is so broken, so afraid, so very _unlike_ them that Elliott’s stomach feels as though it’s been crushed. Their eyes are clouded with such a deep anguish- pain so visceral and real that Elliott cannot hope to understand the depths of it. In this instant, he knows Bloodhound has endured much more than he could ever hope to know or discover, and he feels very, very small. 

He’s harshly brought back to reality. 

Their grip is tight around his arm, and it startles him. Bloodhound’s eyes flick down to where they’re holding him, and their face falls. They release his arm, and Elliott withdraws, refusing to rub away the light stinging. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “Bloodhound, I-”

“Do not pity me. Please.” Their voice sounds so different without the mask- smoother and a little higher, but still so rich and full. Elliott is lost in it, drowning in the tendrils of smoke their voice emanates so effortlessly. His cheeks blaze and his entire body burns, sinking into the warmth and the fog. 

“I-I wasn’t going to. I’m not. Or, I… don’t, I guess.” His hand seeks theirs again, and they flinch again when his bare skin makes contact with theirs. _Who hurt them so badly that they’re afraid of holding hands?_ Elliott mourns, pins and needles piercing his heart into dust at the thought. He can’t take his eyes off theirs, and he drinks in their face like he’s dying of thirst. Sweat gathers between the lines of his palms, and he winces as he feels his palm soften in theirs. 

“You’re beautiful.”

He blurts this without thinking, but Elliott believes it with his whole heart. He doesn’t care that they have scars- hell, he’s got some of his own. Dumb ones, cool ones, ones he’s not proud of…. All of them make him who he is, and he wouldn’t change any of them. Bloodhound’s scars look like silver threads stitching their skin together. If they allowed him, he would trace each scar with his fingers, and caress their face until he memorized every curve, every divot, every pathway. 

“ _Ekki grí-_ Do not joke, Elliott,” they murmur, looking down. Their grip goes limp, and Elliott is too afraid to chase their hand as it retracts. “You are a master of wit, but I do not wish to be the subject of it. Do not lie to me.”

_Ouch._

“Bloodhound, I’m not- I don’t-” He groans shortly, distressed with himself for not being able to articulate his feelings. “I’m not joking. I wouldn’t do that. I mean, yeah, I guess you’re right, I _would._ But not about this.” Their knees are still touching, and Elliott savors the small amount of contact. “Not about you.”

The tiniest bit of happiness breaks through the clouds of grief on their face, and a spike of joy pierces his heart. Bloodhound reaches for his hand and takes it, their grip hesitant at first, then sure. “Thank you, _kæri vinur,”_ they murmur, their voice tight and obscured. _“_ Your kind heart is a true _gipt.”_

Unshed tears arise and linger in their eyes, and Elliott’s body freezes up a little. _Should I say something? What do I even say? ‘Sorry for calling you beautiful’? ‘Sorry for making you cry’?_ Inadequacy begins to surge through his brain, and his shoulders tense up in embarrassment. He’s not the best at this. Comforting his mom is one thing, but comforting someone he’s interested in is a whole different ball game.

Bloodhound’s expression is drawn and tight, and there is no subtlety in what they’re feeling. It strikes him that they’ve never been expressionless like he had assumed; their mask has to be practical for more reasons than one. He wonders what they truly look like when they smile, and his heart leaps a little when he realizes that he’s probably made them smile tons of times- he’s just never had the privilege of seeing the effects of his jokes. 

“D...Does it hurt?” he asks, and he immediately feels stupid. The question surprises him on the way out of his mouth- he definitely hadn’t been thinking of asking before. 

“What?”

“Your scars. D…Do they hurt?’

They blink in surprise, and their eyes are guarded, but wide. “...Only when it storms.”

As if to articulate their words, a massive bolt of lightning strikes somewhere outside, and thunder follows it immediately. Elliott flinches, and the comforting feeling around them threatens to break, but the warmth of the fire reaches around the two of them, reminding him that this space is safe and uninterrupted by rainfall. 

Bloodhound winces ever so slightly, and Elliott realizes with a jolt that their face must be aching. Maybe the mask has some type of pressure system to help? He hopes so, because he can’t imagine being in pain every time it rains. Thinking about Bloodhound hurting makes his stomach twist uncomfortably. He wishes he could hold them in his arms, and the desire to do so is so powerful that before he knows it, he has placed his hand on their cheek ever so softly. 

His own cheeks burn, and he stutters, “I- uh-” 

“ _V-Vertu kyrr,_ _kæri vinur,”_ they whisper, placing a hand over his, and the way they stutter makes his stomach turn curiously. “Be still. Please… please stay there. Your touch is… comforting.”

Elliott freezes, now even more insecure at his sudden breach of their space. But he keeps his hand there, and he stares into their eyes. The longer he looks, the more at ease he feels- all wrapped up in the eager space of their pale green irises, completely lost in the gorgeous expanse of their face. Elliott watches them, feels the way they incline their head ever so gently into their touching hands. He can feel the slight roughness of their scars in his palm, but the feeling does not disgust him. They could never disgust him.

Elliott shifts closer to them, and their breath hitches in their throat. He’s hardly able to believe how nervous and bold he is all at once. With others it’s simple- a bit of flirting, a wink, and a strategic fleeting touch can _definitely_ get him places- but with Bloodhound, it feels like he’s a fawn on new legs, wobbling and struggling to find his balance. All impulses and instincts are out the window, and _hell,_ he’s not even sure if they feel the same way about him. There’s a lot of things he doesn’t know, he realizes, and he inhales sharply when he remembers that one of those things is their name. 

“Can I ask what your name is?” he stutters, and he longs to stroke their cheek with the back of his fingers. He settles for brushing his thumb across their face, just under their eye. 

Bloodhound inhales sharply, and flinches away from his hand. “No,” they answer quickly, their shoulders tensing and their eyes darting away. A stinging sensation zings through Elliott’s gut, and Bloodhound seems to notice his discomfort as he retracts his hand. _“Fyrirgefðu mér,”_ they murmur, but their voice is much softer, much kinder. “In my culture we believe true names have power, and as such, we leave them behind when we are given a title. Only our family and those we love intimately are given the honor of knowing our true names.” Their cheeks turn a curious pink color, and Elliott’s stomach flips inside him. 

“O-Oh.” Disappointment wells in him, and he feels foolish. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable or anything.” His face burns in embarrassment once more, and they take his hand again.

“Do not worry, Elliott. It was an innocent question.” They pause for a moment, brows furrowing as they think. “I have not spoken that name aloud in… twenty-four years. It is quite foreign to me.” They look up and meet Elliott’s eyes. “I… often wonder if I will ever have the occasion to say it aloud again.”

He inhales softly, his lips parting, and a fuzzy sort of shock fills his limbs. _Was that… Did they mean…?_ His mind races and goes blank all at once, and he doesn’t know what to make of it. Surely they didn’t mean _him_ , did they? Is there any chance what they said was an invitation? Even with their full face in view, he can’t tell what they’re thinking. They stare at him, their eyes wide and shining, and he desperately wonders what’s in that beautiful head of theirs.

“I… I think you will,” he murmurs, sliding in closer to them. “There’s not a doubt in my mind. Someone amazing is gonna fall in love with you and… be worthy of hearing that name.” He looks down at the lining of his pants, inspecting it closely and refusing to meet Bloodhound’s gaze. Surely they would just… tell him if they had feelings for him, right? They’ve been direct enough with him this whole time- wouldn’t they just be up front with him?

It strikes him then that they’re sitting right in front of him, face completely bare, presumably in some degree of agony because of the storm, and they’re remaining in agony because of _him._ They consciously chose to remove their mask in front of him. Bloodhound made the concrete decision to show him their face, and he’s sitting here wondering if they trust him and care for him?

_Elliott, you IDIOT._

His head tilts up until his eyes are level with theirs again. Bloodhound stares at him, and their beautiful lips part slightly, their green eyes guarded but yearning all at once. Elliott knows he’s leaping over the edge of something huge here, but still, he leans in slowly, so slowly. He swears his chest is vibrating from how hard his heart is beating, and his hands tremble. His lips are so, so close to theirs, and their breath washes over his chin, cold and… minty? Elliott’s forehead bumps against theirs, and he inhales sharply, wanting so bad to close those last few millimeters of space between him and them. His eyes fall closed, and he leans in…

“Elliott…” 

Their voice is barely above a whisper, slipping from their lips in a soft sigh that holds so much meaning and none at all. His eyes fly open and he watches their face carefully, scouring their hills and valleys for any sign of protest or discomfort. He’s frozen in place, his skin sparking where it makes contact with theirs. Can he… should he...

And then they pull away.

Bloodhound does not meet Elliott’s eyes. “ _Ég get það ekki,_ ” they whisper, and while Elliott doesn’t understand, the meaning is clear. _I can’t._

“I’m sorry,” he says, the cavern of his stomach dissolving into shame. Rejection rises in his throat, coating his airway and tightening it. Slowly, he pulls away, but he keeps their hand in his. “I’m so sorry.”

Bloodhound pulls away from him, stands swiftly, and strides toward the kitchen. Their sudden absence from his side sends a chill down his spine, and disappointment shreds his heart into pieces. He was wrong. How could he have been so wrong? How could he have been so _stupid?_ Bloodhound doesn’t think of him that way- of course they don’t. Why did Elliott even assume they did? What makes him special to them in the slightest? _Stupid, stupid Elliott, being nice to someone doesn’t mean they want to jump into your arms,_ he thinks. _They’re probably better off without me, anyway. They don’t need a distraction for the Games. God, I’m stupid. They’re probably not even interested, or maybe-_

“It’s that doctor, isn’t it?” he questions, his throat beginning to close up without his permission. He clears it and brushes a nervous hand through his hair. “Boone, or something, right? I mean, he’s really attractive and he speaks your language, so I get it. You said you grew up together, and I just assumed that maybe you guys were just friends, but I guess I just totally misread the situation and you guys are- _t-together_ together, or whatever, I don’t know. That’s fine, that’s totally fine, you know- I’m really sorry, I shouldn’t have-”

“Elliott, _please_ ,” they implore, and their voice comes out stressed and pained. Their face is in their hands, and the firelight flickers across their being, making the drying ends of their hair glow. “It is not Boone. We are not together. We once were, but… that was many years ago.”

Elliott stares, utterly confused and frustrated. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry, but still… why? Did I mess up or say something wrong?”

Bloodhound growls a sigh, a short sound that stings Elliott as it comes. “No,” they answer, their hands going to rub the back of their neck as their body tenses up. “No, you did nothing wrong. I just… I am not worthy of you, _kæri vinur._ I never will be.”

His jaw drops open and all he can do is stare at them, dumbfounded. _Bloodhound? Not worthy of ME?_ Their back is to him, and he wishes he had the guts to go to them and take them in his arms. “W-What do you mean? _You’re_ not worthy of _me?_ I, uh, I was gonna say it’s the other way around.” Saying it out loud makes a funny feeling leap in his stomach, a feeling that he very much does not like.

A short, sharp sob hisses between their lips, and he’s not even really sure it _is_ a sob. It sounds like a strangled laugh, but he can’t be sure. They turn to face him and he’s alarmed to find tears in their eyes. “I assure you, Elliott. The _forréttindi-_ privilege- of being loved fully and completely was made unavailable to me long ago. There is no denying it, and no retrieving it. I have done too much, hurt too many, k-killed-” Their eyes go impossibly wide, and they slap a hand over their mouth. 

_Killed?_

“...I’ve killed people, too, Bloodhound,” he murmurs, but the admission feels hollow. He hasn’t _really_ killed anyone, not fully and completely. But the memories of broken bodies and spilled blood floats in the forefront of his mind- memories and images that often keep him up at night from how horrifying they are. Being in the Games had given him ample opportunities to be around death, though he had to admit, none of it was permanent. Bloodhound’s slip of the tongue feels… much more damning.

“You do not understand,” they hiss, and even though he knew it was coming, the pitch and force of their words slips a knife between his ribs and twists. “You could never understand.”

“Let me at least _try,_ ” he begs, standing from the couch. “Bloodhound, how can I understand if you won’t let me?”

“You do not _need_ to understand, Elliott!” Their voice is desperate, raw, and the timbre of it makes Elliott’s heart ache inside him. Anguish etches into every line and scar of their face, obscuring the kindness and fear he had once seen there. “I will never be worthy of you, and it is directly because of my own _aðgerðir og val-_ actions, choices. I came to terms with that long ago, and I suggest you do the same.” They lock eyes with him finally, their green irises swimming in tears, and their jaw is trembling as they try to keep it in place. “You deserve someone whole, untainted, _hreinn og laus við þessar syndir sem ég hef framið-”_ They slip into their native tongue as sobs begin to press at their frame, and they make no attempt to correct themself.

He takes a few steps forward, holding out a hand to try and take one of theirs. “Bloodhound, I-” 

“ _Don’t_.” They push his hand away and step backwards, their heel hitting the corner of the couch. They wince, and Elliott has never wanted anything more than to gather them in his arms and hold them there until their grief was spent. He stares at them, his own lips beginning to tremble, and he swallows back the lump in his throat. He knows there is no changing their mind, no convincing them otherwise, and the lost opportunity hangs between them like a feather caught on an updraft, unlikely to touch down again.

“I think it is best that you leave.” Their voice is tight and low, almost as low as it would be with the mask on. They do not meet his eyes, and instead walk to the door.

Elliott’s body nearly crumbles under the waves of shame and pain crashing over him, but some unseen force keeps him standing. The warmth that had once surrounded them has been replaced by a stark cold, even though the fire still blazes in the hearth. The comfort he had felt was gone, replaced by a grating pain that rubs against him over and over again. “If that’s what you really want,” he replies.

They nod.

He bites his lip as he gathers his shoes and socks and pulls them on. They’re still the slightest bit damp, but he’s numb to the texture of them, too focused on the anguish starting to stir inside his chest. He moves as though he’s in a trance, and his feet carry him to the door. He wants so badly to reach out and touch them again, but there’s an unmistakable wall between them now, and to breach it would be unforgivable. 

It’s entirely up to them to scale it now.

Bloodhound opens the door and makes sure to stay behind it. “I am sorry,” they murmur, their jaw still trembling.

“Me too.” He can’t meet their eyes.

Elliott steps out of the apartment and into the hallway, and the door shuts behind him with a soft _click._


End file.
